Treacherous
by Las-Botas
Summary: Argentina, 1948: The American & British governments think fresh-off-the-streets Emma Blanchard is their ace in the hole for infiltrating an infamous Nazi escapee's abode. It's up to her protector, MI6's Killian Jones, to guide her and not get attached. But you know what they say about 'best laid plans'... Rating for sex, thematic elements, and eventual violence.
1. Chapter 1

_Hey-o! So I was going to wait awhile into the hiatus to start posting my next multichap—but I figured with the last CS-lite episode, *shrug* why the hell not? So, a warning: this won't be a light, funny one like my other 2 fics. And —disclaimer—though it's based on history, the story is complete fiction. I've merged 2 Ingrid Bergman films from the 1940s as the plot base: __**Gaslight**__ & __**Notorious**__, though you don't need to be familiar with them to get the story. Whole fic is rated 'M' for sex, thematic elements, and eventual violence. _

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><p><em>Foreword: In the aftermath of World War II, several 'ratlines' were developed by sympathizers in order to help Nazis and fascists escape the post-war repercussions coming their way. A paper trail of faked passports would be set up to smuggle the escapee from Germany to either Spain or Italy, and from there to various countries, primarily those in South America. <em>

_Buenos Aires, Argentina_

_February 1948_

The slotted blades of the overhead fan turned lazily, ineffectual in the summer heat, while below it, two bodies writhed about on the bed's thin cotton sheets. One of Emma's legs was hooked over Killian's arm as he hovered above her, driving into her tight heat relentlessly.

"Jesus, Killian," she moaned, fingernails digging into his sides to pull him even closer. "Fuck, you feel amazing, you always feel amazing." Her thighs slipped in the sweat they'd generated, and she hitched them back up above his hips.

Killian took a moment to grin down at the woman spread out beneath him so invitingly. He loved hearing his name—his _real_ name—on her lips; she didn't get to say it often enough.

"I can't seem to find any room to complain on my end either, darling," he smirked.

She rolled her eyes, smiling. "Please, I may faint from all the flattery."

He didn't respond except for a chuckle, pulling her up suddenly against her chest, bouncing her several times upon his cock before pulling her off abruptly. "End of the bed, my dear," he smirked, giving a soft slap to her ass. "Hold onto something."

Emma scrambled down the bed's length, gripping two of the iron bars on the foot frame, looking over her shoulder expectantly, and Killian felt his cock twitch. By gods, she was a majestic site, he'd love to tie her hands above her head to those bars, and…but today they'd wasted enough time. When she'd come up to his apartment today, they'd wordlessly agreed on nothing hurried, going at a slower, more sensual pace to match the temperature. It had been fantastic as ever, but now, to put it crudely, they had to move things along.

He gripped her hips firmly, and pushed back into her in one fluid thrust, reveling in her sharp inhale. The arm that ended at his wrist curled around her, rubbing against the soft skin of her stomach, while his hand gripped the bedframe next to her right one, then let it trail to where they were joined.

"Are you close, Emma?" he murmured when he felt her thighs start to shake.

She reached a hand back, threading her fingers through his thick hair. "Yes," she whimpered, pushing back against him vigorously. "Make me come, Killian. Please!"

"If the lady insists," he responded, biting down on the soft spot between her neck and shoulder and continuing to rub over her clit. She let out a loud shout, spasming around him simultaneously.

""Kil—!" she clapped a hand over her mouth, as Killian thrust twice more, coming with a loud groan. He collapsed back onto the bed, pulling Emma by the waist along with him.

"Why'd you cover your mouth?" he asked, once she'd settled her cheek against his chest. "You know I love to hear what I do to you."

She snorted, gave him a smack on the shoulder. "Don't want to give the neighbors any more cause to talk. You know, I'd expect someone in your position to be more discreet. Aren't you the one who's supposed to be telling me what to do? You're a terrible minder."

"Perhaps, the grasshopper has become the master," he intoned, in a horrible Charlie Chan voice, making Emma laugh again.

"I highly doubt that," she responded, while Killian started inching down slowly, pressing his lips to a bead of sweat on the side of her breast, while his hand reached up to cup it.

"Oh, no sir!" Emma sat up, swinging her legs over the side, and reaching for her camisole that had been flung over a bedpost. "No time for any of that."

"Must you always rush off?" he groaned, falling back onto the pillows.

"You know damn well what I'm rushing off for," she said, now doing up her blouse buttons. "I shouldn't even have stayed this long. Rumpelsteiger's going to send a car for me in an hour, and I haven't even selected a dress yet!"

Killian propped himself up on an elbow, resting the side of his face on his scarred wrist, watching her get re-dressed. "Whyever not? I thought that was a great pastime of women, selecting just the right outfit for this party or that."

"Excuse me if I haven't gotten used to being invited to parties yet, Nazi ones or no." She said it casually, but it still made Killian's chest constrict. He didn't want to think of Emma being alone for as long as she had, or the circumstances, so instead he continued lecturing her.

"Well…another thing," he grumbled, sitting up, "you really shouldn't refer to that man and his son as 'the Rumpelsteigers'. They're going by "Gold' here, and you ought to do the same."

Emma darted into the lavatory to remove her diaphragm, then straightened her slip and pulled her gray skirt on over it. She popped her head around the corner. "Why? They go by 'Rumpelsteiger' when I'm around."

"Aye, but it's for your own safety, lass. Within their walls is fine, but if the outside world heard you calling them that…well, it's a different story."

Her eyes narrowed. "I thought you checked for bugs again."

"I did! Everyday. But…oh, bloody hell, just be careful!"

Emma grinned; bringing him to the point of exasperation was always great fun. She reached down to slip her gray pumps back on, then rounded the bed, leaning down towards Killian and running a palm down his stubbly cheek.

"When will we see each other again?"

"Don't fret about it. As always, lass, I'll find you." He cupped a hand behind her neck, and pulled her down for a searing kiss. Killian nipped her bottom lip, then plunged his tongue into her mouth when she opened for him, thoroughly ravaging her before he pulled back.

"Golly!" Emma exclaimed, looking dazed as her hand drifted to her swollen lips.

Killian smiled smugly. "Think of that while Gold Jr. tries to make his pathetic attempts to brush up against you this evening, darling."

Her expression grew serious. "Even if I didn't have—I mean, even if it weren't for you, Killian, he wouldn't tempt me. Him, his father, and their friends are all despicable people."

"Don't let your emotions take over, _Swan_," he said, reverting back to her code name as a pointed reminder. "Just remember the end objective."

Her eyes grew hard at his return to a cold, professional tone. "Yes, _Hook_," she replied. "I remember perfectly." And she turned and left, shutting the door a little harder than necessary.

Killian sighed, leaning back against the headboard. She'd taken so well to recruitment and training, sometimes he forgot how deep Emma had been plunged right off the bat. For all she'd been game for, she was still, essentially, a civilian. It wasn't fair, but then again, it hadn't been Killian's call.

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><p><em>Seven months earlier, New York City<em>

The man glanced over his newspaper, then rolled it up and set it on the bench beside him. Any minute now, that flash of blonde hair and darting gaze would be along, as it had for the past couple weeks.

Only this time, Killian Jones was ready.

And there she was—inching closer and closer to the fruit cart, inconspicuous in her worn tan trenchcoat. He doubted she'd notice the vendor wasn't the usual, easily-fooled fathead. Today, it was a similar looking agent—and she wouldn't get away with her typical routine.

Emma ran her fingertips lightly across the rows of oranges, apples, and plums, drops of dew still glistening on them. She was sure her coat, though old, put her above suspicion. It didn't look like something a dame who was a step away from being out on the streets would have, at least. She'd snatched it a couple months ago off a chair back at some outdoor café, nobody noticing as she'd folded it over her arm and strolled away nonchalantly. Her heart rate picked up, as it always did, when her fist closed around a particularly plump apple—her target. Yes, it was wrong, as the orphanage matrons had done their best to beat into her all those years ago, but one more piece of stolen food was one more man she didn't have to lie on her back for. Emma had only made it three steps when those dreaded words came: "Hey, you gonna pay for that, little lady?"

_Goddammit, the question that was the bane of every thief's existence_. Emma turned stiffly, apple still clutched tightly. _No_. No, she didn't want to have to make herself available tonight, please no, she was so close….

"I…" she took another step backwards, and the vendor sprung, much more agile than she would've guessed a man of his girth to be. In seconds, her wrists were pinned above her head, the man's large stomach pressing her against the brick wall.

"I don't take kindly to thieving scum," he hissed in her ear. "And if you ain't got the coin…."

"I'm not!" she wailed, struggling futilely in his grasp. "I'm not sc—"

"Is there a problem here?" A velvety, accented voice broke through the confrontation, and Emma raised her head towards it. Roosevelt's ghost, it had to be the most striking man she'd ever laid eyes on. Dark hair, windswept, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to drill right through her. His black suit was sharply tailored, and his gloves and shoes looked to be real leather. _A man of some means_, she mused. _But what does he care what happens to me_?

"This filthy tramp was tryin' ta steal from me, mister," the vendor responded, releasing one of his hands holding Emma down. "An' I don't take kindly to—"

His expression unchanging, the dark stranger tugged off one of his gloves with his teeth, then swiftly snatched it and struck the vendor across the face with it.

"I'd watch how you speak about and in front of a lady, you swine," he said calmly, looking at Emma now. "Shall I get you your apple, love?"

_What did he want for it? They all wanted something. Still, he was quite pleasant looking, maybe it wouldn't be so bad…._ She nodded, staring at the ground while the man tossed a nickel at the vendor, muttered some last comment, then grasped her elbow securely and led her towards the park across the street. Once seated side-by-side, Emma had no clue what to say, twirling the apple in her hands. After a minute, she looked up, startled to see the handsome man staring at her, smiling gently.

"So…what do you want?"

The man looked confused. "What do I want?"

"Yeah. You—you did me a service back there, mister, and I'm grateful. But I know men aren't content with a 'thank you most kindly', now are they…sir?" She was surprised to see him look almost angry at her words, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

"Haven't had a very smooth go of it, have you, love?"

Emma let out a very unladylike snort. "You could say that, sir. Though that's phrasing it mildly." Her head jerked up. "I'm not looking for your pity, or anything. Sorry…I don't know why I just said that to a complete and utter stranger."

"You can say anything you want, or don't want, to me, darling. You see,"—and here the man actually covered her hand with his un-gloved one—"you're something of an open book."

Emma pulled her hand out from under his. She wasn't getting any dangerous vibes from him, but he was certainly an oddball. "That's kind of a presumptuous thing to say, mister—?"

"Ah, well, I suppose we're past formalities now, aren't we? However, my name segues right into what I want from you." He started to reach into his inside suit pocket.

Emma glared. "So you do want something from me." She stood up quickly, hands in fists. "Dammit, are you a copper? Playing some game with me, are you? You're all the same, think toying with the beggar's a great blast before throwing me in the clink for the night—"

The stranger pulled her back to the bench by her wrist. "Settle yourself, ma'am. I'm here to entreat a favor of you. I actually know quite a bit about you already, Emma." Before she could react (_how did he know her name_?), he flipped open what looked like a thin billfold right in her face.

Curiosity got the better of her, and Emma leaned over what looked at first glance to be some international ID card. But upon further inspection, her eyes widened.

"Killian Jones…MI6? But—but isn't that—?"

"The British Secret Service? Aye. Out to protect Queen and country, and all that lot."

She raised a brow. "And what could the British Secret Service possibly want with whoring, thieving trash?"

There was that jaw clench again. "Don't speak of yourself as such, Emma. You're actually quite an important person—to your country, my country, and quite possibly, the whole free world."

Emma could feel her jaw hanging open, but no matter how foolish she probably looked, she couldn't bring herself to care at the moment. He was off his rocker, without a doubt. "I—what? I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, but I'm afraid you have the wrong person. I'm—I'm nobody—just an orphan who grew up on the streets, doing what I could—what I _had_ to do—to survive. I've never mattered to anyone, and I never—"

"But you do, lass," Killian Jones said, unruffled, tucking his ID back into his suit. "What I'm going to tell you is, at first, going to sound like something straight from the cinema, but…please keep an open mind."

She sat back slowly, hands on her knees. What else did she have to do? The man might still be a nutter, but at least he was entertaining. "All right, Mr. Secret Agent. Let's have it."

He visibly relaxed, giving her another gorgeous grin. "Well…'spose I should start at the beginning. Emma, for years the Yanks have tried to get together a covert structure like the one we Brits mastered years ago…and after several starts and stops, it's finally clicked. It's not common knowledge yet, but let me tell you about a new, comprehensive unit called the Central Intelligence Agency. And the CIA considers you to be a vital component to their next operation."

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><p><strong>AN: Well, hope you liked the first bit! Planning on this being the writing exercise that gets me through the hiatus. Oh, I wonder if anyone knows which 1933 movie I took their meeting scene from? Hint: It was remade in 1976 **_**and**_** 2005. Review, por favor?**


	2. Chapter 2

_Well, I was going to wait a bit to post this segment too, but I'm stuck at work with nobody here & nothing to do, so….Also, so glad this fic has gotten a good reception! Wasn't really sure how a post-WWII CS fic would do, so thanks!_ _(Or maybe it was the smut? lol)_

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><p>After yet another nick with the pin, Emma threw it back onto the vanity, blowing out a frustrated breath. Her hair fell down to its full length once again.<p>

"Anna!" she called for the maid. The younger woman always had perfectly coiffed hairdos. Emma hoped asking for help didn't give away that she was far from some high-bred lady, but she was down to the wire.

"Yes, Missus?" Anna poked her head into the room, her hair in two simple braids today. "Oh dear, madam!" she exclaimed in a heavy Norwegian accent, "You're not ready—"

"I know, Anna. Could you—" –Emma gestured at her head—" –help?"

Within minutes, Anna had managed to tuck Emma's hair into a tidy chignon. "There now, that's better," she said, admiring her handiwork. "Not to say you don't always look bee-yoo-ti-ful, Missus Emma, just that—"

"It's quite alright, Anna, I didn't take offense." Emma had learned soon after their first acquaintance that it was best to just cut the girl off before she turned a simple comment into a speech.

The heavy door knocker at the opposite end of the house sounded, and Anna let out a little squeak, scampering out of the room to go answer it. Emma looked back up at the vanity's mirror, still not used to the view of herself in such finery. Besides her hair and the emerald pendant necklace, her look included a flowing, elegant long black dress, the halter straps meeting behind her neck, and then branching out, criss-crossing her back to meet at the waistline. When she had first arrived at the bungalow nearly four months ago, all the rooms had been furnished, there was a fully-equipped kitchen, mostly with appliances she planned on never using, a gramophone, and a closet full of brand-new clothes, both casual and formal.

"I guessed your size," Killian had smirked when they'd had their meet-up later. "How'd I do?"

"On the money," she'd murmured, rising on her toes and running her lips across his jawline. "But to be fair, you had intimate intel on the woman's figure in question."

"'Women' is just another subject I take great pleasure in knowing instinctively," he cracked, giving her a wink and a pat on the bum, and Emma had lowered back to her soles, disappointed. There were times he seemed so focused, so engaged by her very presence—and then he'd make some flippant remark or swing things back to business, and she'd crash back to Earth, like some deflated balloon the day after a party.

_He doesn't have cause to act any differently_, Emma told herself sternly as the memory stung anew, _You're just a willing and available cunt like you've always been. And at least Killian treats you better than any other man has, no matter the reason_.

"Missus?" Anna had returned, breaking through Emma's thoughts. "Meester Gold—the son—has arrived for you." Emma didn't miss the disgusted sneer that flickered briefly over the girl's mouth, and she hid her own smile at it.

"Thank you, Anna. Tell him I'll be right out."

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><p>Killian strode over to his makeshift bar, pouring out a healthy splash of rum, and took it out into the muggy air on the balcony. His fingers drummed restlessly upon the railing, a scowl creasing his forehead. He knew Emma hated her interactions with the Golds and their posse, but that didn't mean that younger one wouldn't try and take liberties, if the full report on him was anything to go by. Of course, Emma could take care of herself, but even she had limitations. Killian remembered about three weeks into his shadowing her—on that particular night, she'd brought some wide-set brute home with her. Less than two hours later, the man had departed, hand against a puffy, swelling lip. Killian had delighted in the revealed feistiness of the Swan girl, only to have the grin wiped off his face shortly after when she'd left the boardinghouse, head ducked trying to conceal a black eye. It went against his assignment—all protocol, really—but Killian had sent two CIA lackeys to track the offender down, and beat him to within an inch of his life. He'd sauntered up afterwards, the man cowering below him, between his attackers.<p>

"W-who the hell are you? Please, whatever you want—"

Killian had planted his polished shoe firmly on the man's chest. "What I want, mate, is to never set sight on your repugnant mug in this fair city again." He'd tapped his prosthesis to his chin, the man balking at the metal hand. "Scratch that—you aren't welcome in all of New England. Do you know of the butcher on East 8th and Broadway?"

"Y-yes…?"

"He's shipping out a van of steaks to Atlanta at dawn, and you're going to be on it. In the back."

"But—but those vans are packed with ice! I'll freeze to death before I make it!"

"That's a chance I'm willing to take, mate. Take the risk, or my friends here will finish the job."

A gaggle of children shrieking as they ran after a ball in the street jolted Killian back to the present. With a growl, he tossed back his drink in one gulp. Emma had been trouble for him since he first laid eyes on her, no matter how carefree he tried to paint the connection between them.

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><p><em>Seven months ago, New York City<em>

"You're right," Emma said flatly. "I don't believe you. Everything you just said, I mean…You're a liar! Or—or a crazy person…or both! You don't expect me—"

"Of course not," Killian broke in smoothly. "But I really must insist you at least consider everything I've laid out here. Take a night…take a day. I'd like you to be protected whilst you do so, though." He rubbed a hand up the back of her upper arm. "Where are you staying?"

Emma thought of all her earthly possessions, crumpled in a burlap sack at the boardinghouse room she'd be kicked out of by the end of the week for lack of funds. "Just—just a week-to-week apartment," she mumbled, fingers twisting in the frayed hem of her dress.

"How would you feel about a suite at the St. Moritz while you think on the dilemma I've just served up to you?" Killian asked, a dimple denting his cheek.

Emma stilled her fidgeting. "Now I _know_ you're feeding me a line."

He stood, taking her with him. "Not at all, darling, and I'll prove it." He started to walk, and with her arm in his hand, Emma had no choice but to follow.

"Hey! Hey, Mr. Jones—"

"Call me Killian."

"Fine, Killian—I haven't agreed to anything, and if you think—"

He stopped suddenly, spinning her to face him. "Lass, I've been tasked with watching you for a long time. Longer than you'd be comfortable knowing, I've no doubt. Why, I'd wager I know you better than you know yourself. Let me just ask you this—what've you got to lose just by pondering all this? Do you really want to go back to that dilapidated hovel you call a home tonight? Hands over your ears, barricading that flimsy door against—"

"Fine!" Emma held up her hands. "I'll go. But this doesn't mean I'm agreeing to this malarkey."

He didn't respond, just grinned and led her a couple blocks away where a sleek, silver Rolls Royce idled by the curb. Killian opened the back door for her. "Hop in, love."

Emma slid across the seat, head spinning. She couldn't tell if all this would turn out to be a dream or a nightmare. _But does it really matter which_? A little voice in her head whispered, _What's your life worth at this moment, anyways_? She leaned back against the plush seat, closing her eyes, rubbing at her temples. True, she could decline all the poppycock this Killian Jones was doling out, and go on her merry way. Probably go right on to an early death by starvation or exposure, swept up with the city's street cleaning some morning. Or, she could buy into this ridiculous "mission", live a few months in relative contentment, and quite likely everything would end with a bullet between her eyes. Killian had outlined the possibility of 'unplanned completion' briefly, as he had rattled everything off. Still…she'd die a hero. A hero for her country—she snorted at that; what had the country ever done for her?—and maybe even a somewhat hero, an avenging angel, to the millions who had perished in the war. The glorification angle did have some appeal.

"I'll do it," she said in a monotone, not opening her eyes.

She felt Agent Jones turn towards her. "You'll—are you quite positive?"

"Yes," she replied, "I haven't got anything—or anybody—else. Why the hell not?"

"As good a reason as any, I suppose. But, love, are you—"

"Yes, I'm sure. I just have one request before this whole—whole three-ring circus begins. Can I still stay at the St. Moritz tonight?"

She opened her eyes as she felt his strong fingers close around hers. "Of course, sweetheart," he said. "I've already had them fix a room up for you."

And Emma felt the smallest inkling of warmth start to unfurl through her hardened, frostbitten insides.

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><p>Once she was checked in, showered, and wrapped in one of the hotel's robes, Emma sat down at the desk in her suite to look over the file Killian had handed off to her. She'd probably have time to read it on the plane to D.C. tomorrow but, tired though she was, she wanted to go over everything so she knew it from the inside out. Jones had been right; it was unsettling how thick of a dossier the American and British government had on her.<p>

"You've a right to know," he'd said. "Need to see what you're getting into."

There it all was: her life laid out depressingly on several sheets of Xerox copy. Emma (various last names, first known one Blanchard), resident at multiple orphanages throughout New England since birth, ran away for good at fourteen, pregnant at eighteen (terminated), in and out of the slammer ever since, primarily for theft and prostitution. One of her mug shots stared defiantly up at her, paper clipped onto the front of her arrest records. She sat back, feeling overwhelmed at her entire past confronting her all at once. She didn't want to think about it, and flicked over to the next page—the lead-in to her selection process. There was neat Xerox of a handwritten note, from an American agent to Britain:

_We believe we have found a suitable candidate for our joint purpose. The young woman in question has no ties, neither to person nor property, and the gaps in her record can easily be redone to show a clear link to Herr Koenig. Koenig has been documented in Maine, the state of her birth, from 1918 (two years before her birth), and for several years after her birth, before his expulsion from America and return to Germany. Miss Blanchard's humble beginnings will be re-formed to present a youth lived in preparatory schools, and an adulthood mainly funded by her estranged "father's" fortune. Her bitterness at his deportation during her early years, and eventual execution will, we believe, not at all be difficult for Herr Rumpelsteiger and those who keep his company to understand and, hopefully, pity_.

The letter went on, descending into political-sounding gobbledygook, and Emma stopped reading, flipping the page and gasping when she was confronted with a post-mortem photo of Herr Koenig. She looked down to the caption in thick black marker, stating it had been taken a day after his hanging for his Nuremberg guilty verdict. A mug shot of him in his living days was attached as well, looking like a squat, angry bulldog. _A murdering bulldog_, she thought dizzily, standing up and walking to the window. She felt like her head was going to explode, and her hands were trembling uncontrollably. How could anyone expect her to fraternize with escaped _Nazis_ like it was all fun and games? Act as though one of them had _fathered_ her? True, her real father was a bastard who'd left her, but at least she'd wager he hadn't had a hand in millions of peoples' deaths. She may not have much in this world, but she liked to think she still had some shred of decency. She went and picked up the room phone next to the bed, and called the payphone number Killian had given her for emergencies.

He answered on the third ring. "Darling? Everything all right?"

"No!" Emma nearly yelled, then paused to control herself. She didn't want the hotel kicking her out. "Nothing is 'all right'. How—how do you people expect me to be around those…those _monsters_ with some half-witted smile plastered across my face? I may be some inconsequential street urchin to you suits, but I—I still—". Emma stopped, pressing a hand to her chest. Her voice had started to rise again.

Killian was silent for a few seconds, then: "Emma? Would you feel better if I came back over? This is a lot to take in, and if you need…support…I apologize, I'm sure my explanation was rubbish, and seeing everything in black-and-white—"

Emma's hands tightened around the phone. A dashing, considerate man like him, worried about _her_? In a hotel room…_alone_…with her…. She gave a little tsk. As though someone like him would think about her that way.

"I—I don't think that's a good idea. I don't need—"

"I can hear what you need in your voice, love. As I told you: open book. I'll be there in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

_Stubborn twit_, she thought as she placed the receiver back in the cradle. A lot like her.

* * *

><p>"I bet you haven't eaten a thing since this afternoon, have you?" he greeted her, brushing past and into the room like he owned it, not commenting on the robe Emma'd forgotten to change out of. She clutched the front to her, blushing.<p>

"I'm not hungry. I'll be right back—I was distracted, and forgot—" she gestured to her attire.

Killian flopped down comfortably in the armchair. "Horsefeathers. I've already instructed room service to have dinner sent up. And as for _that_"—he let out a low whistle—"why would you want to deprive me of that tremendous view of such fetching gams?"

She marched up to him, jabbing a finger into his chest. "Look here, bub, we're getting one thing straight. Whatever your damned intel has on me being fast 'n loose, I did it out of necessity. I won't tolerate your forward remarks."

He only gave her an infuriating grin. "You misunderstand, love. I don't care what that bloody file says on you. Those are just cold facts. Don't forget, I've been watching your day-to-day interactions. I've learned your straightforward approach to things, as well as your nuances. For all the lemons you've been handed, you've still got a—a pure heart." Killian stood up, walking towards Emma until her back was against the wall, positioning a still-gloved hand on either side of her head. His left wrist bent at an oddly sharp angle, but he continued talking before Emma could study it more. "I apologize for the comment. I don't think any less of you. In fact, I think you're bloody brilliant for doing all this." His right hand drifted up, swirling a golden strand around his finger. "Amazing."

She tried to let out a laugh, but it came out more like steam escaping a teakettle. "That's—that's a silly thing to say, Agent Jones. We've just met today, and nobody's ever thought I was _amazing_."

His face was so close now, the tip of his nose brushed her ear. "Are you calling me a nobody, lass?" he asked, but there was amusement in his tone.

"N-no, it's just that—"

"Tell you what. Why don't you get in bed"—he nodded towards the other room—"and I'll bring it to you when it gets here? You must be exhausted. Top drawer of the bureau should have pyjamas, as I told—" He cut off when he saw the look on her face, held his hands up like he was been mugged. "I swear not to steal a glimpse!"

"Alright," Emma said warily, "but don't try anything. I have a mean right hook, and I'll deck you for any funny business, MI6 or no."

Killian chuckled, shaking his head as he went back to the armchair. No sooner had he settled down again than Emma flew out of the bedroom, shaking something in his face.

"What the hell is this?! I thought you said I wasn't a harlot to you, and then you leave _this_—"

Killian pried the object out of her fist, unfurling it. It was a lacy black negligee. His lips pressed tightly together. "I apologize, darling. I promise, I had nothing to do with fixing up the room, and that includes selecting your sleep attire. The CIA's Agent Mills has a perverse sense of humor." He was relieved when her gaze softened.

"You're telling the truth."

He reached out and cupped her cheek, keeping a light touch. "Let me be clear right from the get-go about one thing, Emma—I'm never going to keep anything from you. I'm going to place a great deal of trust in you, and—"

"And you're going to tell me to do the same for you," she said, sounding annoyed. "Just like that."

"Not exactly. Don't tell the CIA or MI6 this, but—well, they'd _demand_ you trust me on blind faith. Or if not that, just throw yourself at my mercy. But I'm _asking_ you to." He gave her a careful smile. "Maybe try something new, eh?"

And somehow, she did. It went against all her built up, streetwise instincts, but for some reason, Emma knew this Killian Jones was being sincere.

"Okay," she said softly, hand coming up to tentatively rest over his. "Okay…I'll try and trust you."

* * *

><p>Emma elected to stay in her robe as long as Agent Jones was there, legs tucked up beneath her, and once they'd polished off their dinner of Cornish game hens and steamed vegetables—the most food Emma had had all at once in who knew how long—Killian went back over the files, and what would ensue in the next few months, with her.<p>

"You'll have your own apartment in Washington for the three months you're there—guarded, of course. Prepped about everything and everybody you'll encounter in Argentina—"

"Killian? What exactly are a bunch of escaped Nazis looking to do? Another Holocaust?" She felt bile rising in her stomach.

"No—not yet, at least. They want to get back on their feet, make the world bow down to their power. Rue the day the Allies crushed them."

"How?"

"That's where we—well, we via the government—come in. We know Rumplesteiger's a key player in some new hush-hush undertaking down there. Are they stashing weapons? Are their scientists planning mass biological warfare? Won't be easy, especially with that crook Perón turning a blind—" He stopped, looking at her stricken face. "I've inundated you with information, again." Killian reached across the table and rubbed a thumb across her knuckles. "Breathe, lass. Tell me what you're thinking."

She let out a shaky laugh. "That I'm in over my pay grade."

"Would it help to know that I'll be with you?"

"Through training?"

"That, and…I'm going to Argentina with you."

Emma felt a leap in her chest, and gave her head a tiny shake at her stupid schoolgirl reaction. "I—I suppose that would make the transition—"

"Ah, ah, love, what did we agree about honesty?" He leaned back, smirking. "You're happy about the news. Don't try and be coy; why, I think you're rather fond of me."

"Someone thinks quite highly of himself. Don't be absurd; I don't know a thing about you."

"Irrelevant. I can read a woman's signals." He bent his upper body forward. "For what it's worth, I'm quite fond of you, too." Before she could craft some indignant retort, Killian looked down at his silver wristwatch. "And I've outstayed my welcome. I'll let you get some shut-eye, Swan."

"Swan?"

"That's to be your code name when the mission officially begins, love," he responded, crossing to the door.

"Wait!" Emma called, and he turned. "What's yours?"

He rolled up his left glove partway, and Emma could see his skin ended at the wrist, where some metallic apparatus connected onto his arm. "Hook."

* * *

><p>Emma trudged into the bedroom, tossing the robe into a corner. She was just about to crawl into bed when something caught her eye—the lacy negligee, lying on top of the bureau where she'd thrown it earlier. She held it up, and after a swift glance at the front door Killian had just left through, folded it as small as it would go and tucked it into one of the trenchcoat's side pockets.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thanks for reading! If I don't explain the historical bits well enough, feel free to ask! Also, it's a scientific fact that reviews feed my muse *wink wink***


	3. Chapter 3

_So I had a question last time that I thought others might be wondering about. The flashbacks __**will**__ continue most likely through Chapter 5, possibly longer. But eventually, everything will catch up to the present in Argentina. _

* * *

><p>"My dear, you're stunning," Baelthazar Rumpelsteiger smiled warmly at Emma, clasping a hand over her knee as the car started up again.<p>

"Thank you, Bae," she murmured demurely, shifting so his hand fell off. She had managed to steel her natural shudders against his touch for some time now, though she was sure the CIA and MI6 would encourage her to accept his advances, no matter his end intentions. But whether they liked it or not, Emma knew men, and _this_ man had been eating up her little coquettish routine since the get-go—in fact, it only seemed to have made her more intriguing in his view.

He looked down, folding his hands between his knees. "I apologize, my sweet," he stammered, embarrassed. "I forget sometimes that in the company of such a genteel, esteemed woman, I should control my urges." Suddenly, he grabbed her hand, bringing the back of it to his lips. "You're—you're too good to me, Emma."

She smoothly extracted herself from his grip. "Think nothing of it, darling."

God, if he only knew. But anytime she felt Baelthazar's meaty, clumsy hands upon her, she could only think of Killian's strong, smooth fingers, intertwined with hers. Or gently—or perhaps roughly, depending on the mood of the day—pulling her down by one hip to impale her on his cock, over and over. Or softly scratching through her long tresses afterwards, when they lay spent in each other's arms.

Emma turned a smile on him to make up for the lack of physical contact. "I'm ever so thrilled about tonight, Bae. Your father does know how to plan a lively dinner party." Christ, she'd choke on all the lies and prissy talk before this whole debacle was through.

He raised a hand as if to place it back on her leg, thought better of it, and let it fall limply by his side. "I'm glad you enjoy being around our residence, Emma. Especially because tonight shan't be an ordinary drinks and dinner fare."

Her heart stuttered; what on Earth could _that_ mean? "Oh?"

He gave her a smile that was probably supposed to be charming, but only served to send a feeling like an ice cube rolling down her spine. "Yes, my pet. I've something very important to ask you. I apologize for the secrecy, but I'm afraid I do have a bit of the theatrical in me."

Emma forced herself to relax, or to at least give an impression of relaxation. She fanned herself with her pocketbook. "Well, you've certainly piqued my interest. I await your surprise with bated breath." _Or a heart attack ready to emerge from the wings_.

* * *

><p><em>Five and a half months ago, Washington D.C.<em>

Emma lowered the sheet in front of her slowly, fixing Killian with an incredulous stare. "Are you joshing me? _Baelthazar_? Baelthazar _Rumpelsteiger_?!" She stood, taking a few steps towards him. "Did his parents hate him at first sight, or something?"

Killian actually hadn't given it any thought before now, but seeing Emma's reaction, the corners of his mouth started to turn up. "Doubtful, but—"

She shook the paper in his face. "How're you all expecting me to keep a straight face when I hear _Baelthazar Rumpelsteiger_? I'm going to crack up every time!" At this, an actual titter did escape her, and she clapped her hands over her mouth. Killian broke into a full grin as he crossed to her, tugging her hands down and holding them to his chest. He'd done quite well on his promise not to act familiar with her, he thought, but sometimes her honest reactions to things in this new world were just altogether…_charming_.

Since they'd landed in D.C., they hadn't had a whole lot of time with just the two of them; it had been a lot of Emma learning what she needed, and Killian dropping in to check on her when necessary ('necessary' seeming to be quite often). He remembered a couple days after their arrival when he'd gone to the office Emma was assigned to for the day—and being completely stunned at her transformation. Gone was the bedraggled street ragamuffin; she'd been wearing a slim-waisted tweed jacket and matching knee length skirt, black pumps that gave her calves a most becoming shape, and her hair had swung just below her shoulders, cut and permed into what he supposed was the look of the moment for women. Killian had found her gorgeous from the start, but it was obvious that _she_ believed it now, too—at least, he figured by the way she took in his expression.

"You ought to close your mouth, Jones, or you're liable to catch flies," she'd snarked, giving him a soft pinch on the elbow as she'd passed him. Since then, she'd gradually fallen into a more relaxed repertoire with him.

Killian snapped himself back to the conversation at hand, tilting her chin up with his covered metal hand, daunted by the look in her eyes. There was sadness, true, rivers of sadness in that deep green gaze. But there was a little golden spark, too—and he'd only ever seen it whenever she was looking at _him_. He could swear when she looked at him, to her he wasn't an agent, or a cripple—why, she hadn't blinked twice at his prosthesis. To her, he was a man, a whole, capable man. _Don't, you daft bugger. Can't afford to get tangled up with—to care—about a gal who's being used as bait. She's already been used and abused her whole life, hasn't she been through enough? And what of your devotion to—_

Killian dropped her chin and hands suddenly, striding to the window overlooking E Street, real and fake hands clasped behind his back. "You can give a nickname to the wanker," he replied, trying to bring an authoritative gruff back to his voice. "Most men love that tripe." He turned back towards her. "This should be a walk in the park, darling—we've been assured that the little runt's tastes run—"

"Exactly to your physique," a cold, scratchy voice broke in. "That icy, Aryan blond bitch schtick does the blubbering fool in everytime, I've heard." Regina Mills perched a hip against one of the desks, lighting a cigarette and fixing Emma with an aloof stare. "Should be especially easy for you, considering it's more fact than fiction, isn't that right?"

"You rotten—" Killian saw Emma's hackles rise, but put an arm out to stop her when she tried to step towards Agent Mills.

"That's unnecessary, Mills," Killian said lightly. "If it weren't for Miss Blanchard, who knows how much longer it would've taken to put this bloody mission together. By the time you found someone else with her qualifications, the planet might've well been up in flames."

Regina let out a short laugh, exhaling smoke. "_Qualifications_? Besides being a no-good scrounger and bottom-of-the-barrel call girl? Yes, I'm sure those are things anyone would be proud to—"

"Is there some reason you came down here this afternoon, Mills?" Killian cut in before he lost his grip on Emma. "I'm sure your superior didn't put down insulting Miss Blanchard on your agenda today. Should I have a word with him?" He knew every jab at Regina's position of being only _second_ in command for the mission really chapped her arse, and so took every opportunity available to hammer it home to the unpleasant woman. She had taken an immediate disliking to Emma based on her history, hence her stunt with the negligee, and on their first face-to-face meeting when Emma had merely questioned the reason behind her 'Swan' codename, had ensured the animosity went both ways.

"Well," Regina had said innocently, tapping her cigarette into an ashtray. "It's because this great organization has taken it upon itself to raise up a slovenly degenerate, and groom them into a passable member of polite society. An ugly duckling becoming a swan, if you will," she'd gone on, her hateful gaze fixed upon Emma. "Though I've never really seen a completely successful cutting of ties with one's past, have you, Miss Blanchard?"

What would she know of hardship, Killian thought, everything from schooling to her career had been spoon-fed to her by her rich parents her entire life. He was almost certain that she personally was responsible for their codenames. Of course, she was "The Queen". And, really, "Hook"? She probably fancied herself a great wit when she thought of that one; Killian knew she most assuredly was not. After that disastrous first encounter, Killian didn't blame Emma one bit for the near-tangible tension anytime those two were required to spend time together.

Regina narrowed her eyes at him before turning back to Emma. "We've received your itinerary, Miss Blanchard—you're shipping out in six weeks."

"Six weeks?" Emma's eyes went wide. "But—but is that enough time for me to know…well, everything I need to know?"

Regina opened her mouth, surely to say something demeaning, but Killian spoke first. "You've been doing a fine job thus far, lass, a damn fine job," he said, gently squeezing her shoulder. "I think your aptitude is unparalleled. And your training won't be done once you get to Argentina, so if you have any questions once we're there—"

"Just keep them to a minimum," Regina snarled. "Once you're integrated into their little group, they'll be watching you. Not sure how often—it'll depend on how much they trust you. Either way, they can't see you in the company of the same strange man every other minute."

Emma crossed her arms, glaring back at Regina. "So, I'm supposed to appeal to the son. But what if Rumpelsteiger—the father—doesn't agree with him?"

"He won't," Killian said matter-of-factly. "For all the decadence and worldly delights the son enjoys, the decrepit crocodile is decisively old-hat. Despite the history and ancestry we've constructed for you, you're still an American and you aren't as familiar with his culture as he'd wish."

"So…?"

Regina mashed out her cigarette furiously, lit a new one. "Oh, for the love of—you either beguile the idiot son until he won't hear a word against you, or—well, you could always do what you've done best. Forgive me if I'm _prying_, Miss Blanchard, but have you ever seduced a father _and_ his son before?"

Killian saw Emma's face drain of color, before she simply hissed: "You're absolutely vile."

Right, that was enough. Killian crossed to the desk phone and, ignoring the rotary dial, simply ordered "Humbert" into the mouthpiece.

Regina's eyes shrank to slits. "You wouldn't _dare_."

Killian ignored her. "Humbert? Right, mate, tops, everything's just tops." His accent thickened, growing more posh. "Well, a slight problem—your lapdog's making trouble for Swan. Yes—again. I don't want the spy we're sending into the deep end to be a nervous wreck over some indelicate comments. If you could just—right then. Knew I could count on you…right, cheerio." He turned back to the women, unable to keep the smirk off his face when he caught Regina's eye.

"Agent Mills, I believe you're wanted by your handler—er, first-in-command." When she looked about to say something, he added: "At once."

Grumbling some foul words under her breath, Regina tossed her half-finished cigarette at his feet as she stormed out of the room.

Killian strode over to Emma, took both her hands in his good one (he seemed uncomfortable touching her with the prosthesis, unless it was covered). "Alright there, lass? Don't let that hag get you down—I'm quite impressed by your show of patience back there." He let go of her hands, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "What do you say—time for a break? Lunch on me."

"You ratted on her for me."

"I'd do a hell of a lot worse for you, love. And I don't say that lightly."

Thinking back later on how things progressed, even with what she saw as Killian's superficial flirtations, and underlying attraction on both their parts since the day they'd officially met, Emma concluded that Killian's sweet gestures towards her that day were what finally sent her tumbling—hopelessly and completely—head over heels for him.

* * *

><p><em>Rumpelsteiger Mansion<em>

It didn't matter that the finest _bife de chorizo _you could get in the country was on Emma's plate; every bite seemed to turn to sawdust in her mouth. She didn't know what Bae had up his sleeve, but she was sure it didn't bode anything good—for her or the investigation. She pushed her vegetables around her plate, pretending not to notice his goofy grin at her from across the table, two seats down.

Rumpelsteiger Senior raised a hand, preparing to ask the servants to fetch the desserts, when—

"Excuse me, pardon me, everyone," Bae said loudly, standing up and clanging his sherbet spoon against his wine glass. "I have a—"

Rumpelsteiger stood up, eyes glittering angrily. "Do you forget yourself, boy? What's the meaning of this, interrupting our meal in a manner only befitting those plebians to the north?" He turned his serpentine smile on Emma. "I'm sure an expatriate such as yourself will not take any offense on the States' behalf."

Emma gripped the sides of her chair to control the tremor she felt coursing through her; the man's stilted, formal English in his heavy German accent just sounded so _menacing_, though she was sure it was knowledge of his wartime enterprises that provoked her reaction. "N-none taken."

Bae blanched. "Pa—Father, it's a matter of great importance to me, and—"

"If that's the case, we can discuss this in private."

Oddly for him, Bae disregarded the elder's wishes and plowed ahead. "Esteemed company, I'm sure you've noticed the lovely addition to our table these past few months. And, in fact, I've been keeping company with the lovely Miss Blanchard whenever possible."

_Not as often as you think_, Emma reflected gratefully, reminiscing on her stolen trysts with Killian.

"Baelthazar, you're embarrassing the young woman. Look, she's gone red," a lilting voice to Emma's right came. Emma glanced at Elsa, Bae's cousin from Norway, who gave her a serene smile, which Emma returned thankfully. There were never many other women at these get-togethers, and Elsa seemed to have taken to Emma since they were introduced. Some days it was difficult to remember that someone who was as kind as Elsa had been to her kept company with this lot.

"Cousin, please—as I was saying: I've grown quite fond of Emma, and—and I'd like to think she's grown fond of me, too." Here he stopped to give her a timid smile, pointed his wine glass towards her. "Emma Blanchard, will you do me the honor of entering into an engagement with me?"

* * *

><p>Killian had been enjoying his pipe out on the small balcony, and didn't hear the knocking at first, only coming inside when it turned to pounding.<p>

"Just a moment," he called as he tucked his small pistol into his waistband, frowning when it persisted. "I said, bloody hell, keep your knickers on!"

He swung the door open furiously, preparing to give the disturber of his peace some food for thought—and Emma tumbled right into his arms.

"What the—Emma, darling, are you alright?"

She pulled herself up by his arms, trying to catch her breath. "I—I thought I should…there's been a development that I—"

"Couldn't wait for the next signal? You know I always—" He peered at her curiously, not relinquishing his hold. "What's happened? Did you have the chauffeur—?"

"Of course not. You told me not to trust anyone, and I don't. I got home from the dinner party, and took Anna's bike here through the alleys."

"In your evening garb? No wonder you look ready to collapse!" He smiled. "You can take the scamp off the street, but you can't—"

"Killian, be serious. I've got something important to tell you."

He cocked a brow as she steadied herself, and moved a few paces back from him. She unfisted her hands from his undershirt, needlessly smoothing down her dress front. "Bae—Rumpelsteiger's son proposed to me tonight."

"Proposed? As in…marriage?"

Emma blew out an exasperated breath. "Well, he definitely wasn't proposing a 'round the world helium balloon adventure." When that didn't get a laugh or comment, she looked up, meeting with an emotionless mask, so she kept talking: about the short chat on the ride over, having no clue what Bae had been on about, and him finally overriding his father's objections to propose to her right in front of a dining table full of people.

Killian leaned back against one of the bedposts, folding his stumped arm beneath the other, his gaze cool. "How very gauche of him."

Emma stared at him, eyes wide. "Is that really all you have to say? I mean, do I—do I accept?"

"Are you asking me because you want to accept, or because you don't?"

"Of all the—of course I don't _want_ to! But if it'll help us in the long run, I'm…prepared to do what needs to be done."

"What did you say?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your _answer_, Emma! What did you bloody tell the simpleton?"

"Stop yelling at me! I told him it was an important decision, and I'd rather give him my answer in private, anyway. So I could come back and ask about it, of course."

"'Answer in private'," he snarled. "Spoken like a true lady."

Now she folded her arms as well. "You're behaving like a child. What the hell was I supposed to tell him? Why're you so angry at me?"

Killian pressed his knuckles into his forehead. He knew he was being unreasonable; he didn't have any claim to her whatsoever, trying to reinforce the casualness of their off-the-books meetings to her whenever possible. And she was only trying to urge the operation along. Still…the thought of that absolute worm, pawing at her, thinking about Emma _married_ to that—that wretched—

"Killian? Are you listening to me?"

He continued, ignoring her previous question. "And then what happened?" A hot poker of anger stabbed through his stomach. "Were you flattered by the little weasel's intentions? Did you let him touch you the way I do—and like it?"

Emma didn't react to his bad temper, instead simply hooked her thumbs under each dress strap and pulled them down, the slinky material pooling at her shiny black heels. Killian swallowed hard; she'd gone without a brassiere, and was clad in only a black girdle with matching black garters clipped to her stocking tops.

She kept her eyes fixated on his face, gauging his reaction as she slid her hands from her upper thighs, to her torso, to finally cup her breasts. "This—all this—is only for you now, Killian," she said lowly, kneading at her soft flesh, delighting in the bob of his Adam's apple and sweat that rolled down from his hairline. "You're all I want—all I _need_."

He shut his eyes, swallowing slowly. "Gods, Emma. You don't know what it does to me to hear you say things like that. And I know, I know I shouldn't feel—"

"Why not?" she asked, and he hated her pleading tone; at this point, he wasn't sure why he still felt the need to hold back from her. He hadn't wanted a woman so badly since—

"I—I just can't. Not now, at least. Please understand, lass."

"I do," she replied, after a pause. "And I know I haven't got any right—"

"But you do, darling. I hate to be like this, but I promise, one day…I'll tell you everything." His old grin flashed when he saw grudging acceptance cross her face at his explanation. "So…you weren't won over by Junior's affections?"

"Quite the contrary. The only reaction I had to anything regarding him was using every ounce of my self-control not to laugh at that mouthful of a name everytime someone uttered it."

"I've got a much more pleasant mouthful at hand," he grinned, pushing his trousers and boxers down his legs, cock springing free. He relished the hungry look that took over Emma's gaze, pupils blown wide with lust. "Leave your stockings and heels on, love."

She crossed to him while snapping open her girdle, then stooped to unhook her garters and wrench her underwear down her legs. But when she started to kneel, he pulled her up by the elbow.

"Much as I need your mouth on me, darling, I need to taste you, too," he said, falling back onto the bed and taking her with him. "Turn around."

Emma met his eyes quickly, and she wordlessly scrambled to settle herself over him. Ever since their first time—which happened to also be the first time she had ever been pleasured in such a way—she shamelessly couldn't get enough. Not that Killian minded in the slightest; she was the most delectable thing he'd ever tasted, without compare. She let out a soft mewl around him when he pressed his lips to her, and he groaned when he felt her mouth close over him as well, his shaft sliding down her throat. As his tongue stroked up towards her cleft, her lips stilled on him, thighs shuddering.

"Now, Swan, give as good as you get," Killian admonished as he pulled away.

Emma glanced back at him quickly, a playful glint in her eye. "Is that a challenge I hear, Hook?"

"Bet I can make you come first, Swan."

"We'll see about that," she replied, punctuating her threat with a spirited swirl of her tongue around him. His eyes pressed shut, head falling back onto the pillow. In retaliation, he plunged his tongue into her soaked sex completely and was rewarded by her surprised squeal. He didn't relent, withdrawing with a quick nip to her swollen bud of flesh before going fully in again. He grinned as he felt her grip on his ankles tighten, and eased his good hand off her leg, bringing it to join his mouth. After a particularly energetic suck on her part, Killian rapidly delved two fingers into her while biting down on her clit. It had the desired effect; Emma broke away on a shrill whine, arching above him. Killian had decided not to give her any respite, flipping her onto her back and gliding into her.

"I'm actually glad I won that round, Swan," he said over her labored panting, with another thrust that had her digging her fingernails into his shoulders. "Because, much as I love your mouth, I want to come in your delectable cunny tonight."

With all the build-up, it didn't take long; within a couple snaps of Killian's hips to hers, Emma was shattering a second time whilst crying his name, Killian with a shout that he tried to muffle in the sheets. They both fell apart onto their backs, inhaling greedily, chests heaving.

"Hell, Killian," Emma finally gasped, rolling into him, and draping a leg across his waist. "Do I have to tell you another man's asked to wed me to get fucked like that again?"

"I do love it when you talk dirty, darling." He snaked an arm under her shoulders, pulling her closer. "Liked that, did you?"

Emma leaned down, bit his collarbone. "Oh no, I hated it. It was purely _awful_." She pulled herself up, moving to straddle him. "I think I need a do-over."

"Insatiable nymph."

"For you…always."

* * *

><p>The sky starting to pinken was the cue for Emma to return to the bungalow, before she could be easily spotted.<p>

"Killian?" Emma was sitting on the side of the bed, redressed and ready to steal back home under the cover of near-darkness. "So I don't have to marry him?"

"Doubtful, darling. I'll speak to main intelligence, but I don't—no, they wouldn't ask you to go that far. But I should—just as a formality, you understand."

"Of course. Will I—"

"Yes, I'll ask to bring you to the meeting. They're due for an update anyway, and though this bit of nonsense is surely just that, it _is_ a new development. Don't let it keep you up at night."

She brought their intertwined fingers to her lips, kissing the back of his hand tenderly. "You're the only reason I'd forgive for keeping me awake at night. I'll miss you."

His breath caught momentarily, but he forced a grin and chucked her on the cheek. "Right back at you, lass."

Emma stood up, frowning. "Guess I'll see you at the meeting, then." The door clicked shut quietly behind her, and Killian slumped into the pillows, staring at the ceiling.

Gods, but he was a fucking coward.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thank you, as always, for reading. Perhaps a review as a Happy New Year's present? :)**


	4. Chapter 4

_Rumpelsteiger Mansion_

"The audacity—the idiocy—" Rumpelsteiger quit pacing, coming to a stop behind the leather smoking chair in his study, gripping the back of it until his hands went white.

"Papa, please," Bae said glumly, rubbing at the cheek his father had just hit. "She's from good breeding, good status. She's a wonderful girl, and—and face facts, at this rate we're never going to make it back to Europe. I'll never meet some upstanding pillar of the Aryan ideal, and settle down in Munich like you always wanted for me."

Rumpelsteiger stood, arms folded tightly, glaring down at his son. "I thank God that everyone who escaped through the goodwill of our allies weren't faithless cowards like my own child. Barely three years, and you've given up our objective? Decided just to live off my money and play house with your little American doxy? She's not to be trusted."

"Don't call her that, Papa. And I'll admit, she's a silly socialite in many ways, but what's not to trust?"

His father glared daggers at him. "How you survived to your current age with this ignominious level of gullibility, I'll never understand. Why no mention of the rest of her family? Down here alone, without even another lady? Women travel in pairs, m'boy. It's as though she appeared out of thin air!" He punched his palm for emphasis.

"Don't be dramatic, Father. She said—" Bae began, but Rumpelsteiger waved him silent. "Never mind an answer, I don't care what lie she's fed you." He drew himself up as tall as possible, fixing his son with a steely gaze. "Well, have your fun now, boy. But mark my words, you'll come crawling back to me, begging my forgiveness and telling me how right I was this whole time. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but you will. And as a father should, I'll forgive you—for a price."

Bae jumped up, relieved only that his father seemed to be relenting. "Thank you, Papa. But get to know her; she'll grow on you. And just think, soon you'll have plenty of our children running about this estate—your grandchildren!" He gave his father a good-natured clap on the shoulder, and strutted out of the room, whistling.

Rumpelsteiger pushed the door firmly shut behind him, and strode over to the rolltop desk in the corner, taking out his large keyring and unlocking the left bottom drawer. He breathed a sigh of relief, picking up the small vial of clear liquid and turning it over in his hand. Of course it was still here, there was no reason it shouldn't be.

"No grandchildren of mine," he muttered lowly, delicately placing the vial back in its place, and relocking the drawer.

* * *

><p><em>Five and a half months ago, Washington D.C<em>.

"I can't even remember the last time I had the luxury of pizza," Emma said, taking a bite that almost halved her slice.

Killian grinned across Ciro's small front patio table at her. "Should have told me sooner, love, I'd have—uh-uh!" He reached over, cupping his prosthesis over Emma's wrist before she could lick a glob of tomato sauce off her forearm. "A cosmopolitan woman would use a _napkin_, darling."

"Well then, they're a wasteful bunch, aren't they?" she snapped, but dutifully snatched her napkin, petulantly swiping at the spot.

"Best you get into the habit. It'll be second nature by the time you touch down in Buenos Aires."

"Do you really think they'll accept me as—as someone like them?"

"Like I've said, you've taken well to the instruction, and I'll be nearby—"

"But what about when you're _not_? Don't I have anybody else to rely on?"

Killian focused on a point over her shoulder. "Hmm?"

"_Killian_. Be straight with me, like we promised one other."

"Too right, lass." His real fingers beat agitatedly on the tabletop. "The thing of it is, you _will_ have a—a guardian angel, of sorts. Only…."

"Only _what_? Out with it, you—you utterly _irksome_ man!" She was sure she sounded beyond uncouth, raising her voice to a neatly-tailored man at a public restaurant table, but she wasn't about to let anyone in this situation start to think they could have Emma Blanchard play the fool. "I swear, Killian, if you want—"

"Love, I can't tell you who they are!" he finally burst out, tone clipped. "There may be other people in your orbit that're loyal to our cause, but for your own protection and theirs, Emma, we won't be revealing them to you. Much safer for you to view everyone you meet as the enemy. Treat all you encounter as a friend, but think of them as your foe."

Emma glared across the table at him. "I thought you said you were going to place your trust in me. Having qualms about picking me after all?"

"I do trust you, darling, but I don't run the whole shebang here. Despite your inexperience, you're a clever lass, or you wouldn't have lasted as long as you have in your…previous lifestyle." He took her hand. "I'm sorry it has to be like this, but it's absolutely necessary. And don't doubt the complete faith I have in you."

She pulled out of his grip, folded her hands in front of her. "I believe you wanted to discuss some business?"

"Ah…right, right." He opened his thin leather briefcase, pulled out a crisp manila envelope. "We've received instructions for initial contact."

Emma quirked a brow at him. "In English, please."

He smirked. "What I _mean_ is, we know the particulars for your first, "accidental" meeting with Baelthazar Rumpelsteiger."

Emma felt a little thrill zing through her stomach; training was one thing, but to have a date, a place, a plan? It was _really_ happening.

"And how're you arranging for me to meet this twat?"

Killian gave a short laugh. "Well, for one thing, you ought to refrain from saying things like 'twat' in front of men of his ilk. Right from the start, they'll need to buy you as a woman from a privileged background—with the underlying anger of the reason for that privilege being torn from you."

Emma looked down, pulled at a hangnail. "Understood."

"You'll happen to meet at the horse races. Your target is a betting man. The elder accompanies him, I believe mainly to make sure Baelthazar doesn't lose the entirety of their misbegotten fortune. So, unfortunately, you may have him to contend with as well."

Even though it was all strictly business, Emma couldn't help but be fascinated by this new world she was about to enter. Of course, she knew such people existed, but to be in such close quarters with those that didn't give a second thought to laying out a sum that, a short time ago, could have fed her bountifully for a month, and on _horses_—she was, abashedly, somewhat enthralled by the façade.

"What's the name of the joint?"

Killian took a photo out of the briefcase's inside pocket, slid it across to her. "The Hipódromo de Palermo. Attracts the elite of the city, and is quite the spot for idle expatriates—such as you'll be—to meet other rich sods."

Emma studied the black-and-white photo of the racetrack, the stands—and then Killian slid another one over it of two men. They were obviously unaware of the photographer—the younger one had more of an intent expression, ticket clenched in his hand, mouth slack as he fixated on the race activity unfolding in front of him. The older man, though his gaze was focused frontward, seemed to have his ears pricked up, taking in the entertainment, while being hyper-conscious of his general surroundings. Emma recognized that look; it was the look of a criminal who wasn't sure if the law was still on their tail and was ready for flight at the first sign of unrest. That, or put an end to the source of the unrest.

She looked up, straight into Killian's clear blue eyes that were trained intently on her instead of the images. "He—" Emma cleared her throat nervously, staving off ruminating on what that heated look meant. "He knows—the father, that is— that he's being watched. Not the specifics, but he can tell. He's an alert man…his guard won't be let down easily, if at all."

"You're a natural," Killian said, sitting back and giving her a proud smile. "Really, I think you could have gone through this training regimen in half the time the CIA and MI6 decreed. Observant…cautious…plus, you'll have these blokes eating out of your hand, with your womanly charms and wiles."

She gave a dubious snigger. "I don't know about _that_. I've never—never really had to exercise any 'wiles' to do…to do what I did before. Didn't deal in picky eaters, so to speak, Agent—er, Killian."

"Well, you'll never have to deal with such riffraff again, love," he replied, jaw ticking. "If and when—I've got to be blunt here—you come through this ordeal unscathed, and by that I mean 'alive'…well, you'll be set up."

"Set up?"

"Your own apartment, city of your choosing—though I'm guessing you'll be restricted to the States. Nothing fancy, of course, but you'll be comfortable and…and off the streets."

Emma quirked a brow at him; it didn't quite add up in her mind. "That's strangely generous of the powers that be. Especially with the reception I've had so far; I think other than you, reactions towards me have spanned the range from 'frostily cordial' to 'downright hostility'."

"Yes, well," Killian mumbled, scraping at a spot on the checkered tablecloth. "I may have insisted you be taken care of in the aftermath." He looked up, surveying her reaction. "Governments tend to forget they're working with living, breathing people and not chess pieces. I demanded that you weren't to be treated like some scrap of refuse when all this is over, or your cooperation in the matter was over. It's the least the buggers can do for you."

Her initial reaction was a quick flare of anger that all this had been decided on behind her back; being independent for so long didn't have her take kindly to her life suddenly being treated like property by others. But something else made her curiosity overcome her outrage. Emma wasn't really sure she should ask her next question, but she pressed on. "Why, Killian? Why me? I assume you've worked with others in the past? Other, well…lay people? Women?"

"Aye," he said, somewhat guardedly.

"And? Ever done something like this for one of them?"

"No," he admitted.

Emma didn't really have the patience for succinctness. "So what do you see in me? Why am I so…special?" She cut herself off before she could blurt out what she really thought: that it seemed the type of gesture one would do for an individual that meant something to them. Of course, Killian could read what she left unspoken, and she regretted pressing the issue when he glanced down, closing off their line of communication.

His fingertips thrummed an impatient rhythm on the table, while he chewed on his inside cheek. "Lass, if you think…if you think I expect anything of you for this that you've…had to do for other, smaller favors before, believe me, I—I meant nothing untoward by it." He looked up then, an unreadable look on his face. "Do you really think me capable of asking for something like illicit repayment? I know we haven't known each other long, but I—"

Dammit, he was construing it as though she'd misread things and offended him over a completely innocuous gesture of goodwill. Though she really wasn't taking that at face value, Emma decided to play it safe, reaching out and linking her fingers through his. Killian startled like he'd just received an electric shock. "Killian, I'm sorry. That was a preposterous assumption to jump to. I know why I'm "special" to the government, and for a minute I thought…but no respectable person would ever think I'm special on my own. You felt touched by my circumstances, and I—" She stopped, gave him a timid smile. "I figure what I'm trying to say is…thank you."

* * *

><p>Killian felt guilty; he knew damn well that Emma hadn't thought he was asking for…comfort in reparation for making sure she was tended to post-mission. In truth, he was far more unsettled by what he'd seen unspoken—the young girl she must have looked like once, before the cruelty of the everyday overran her expectations. Right in the moment she'd asked '<em>why me?<em>', she might as well have asked: '_So, you like me? But…why _?'

Emma stood abruptly, feeling embarrassed if the flush creeping up her neck was anything to go by. "I really didn't mean to—you know, I think I'll just walk back to Headquarters on my own." She started off at a brisk pace.

Killian got up as well, chasing after her. "Lass, there's no need—"

"Please don't feel obligated to come with me out of some sense of—of gentlemanly duty." She spun around, looking down and opening her pocketbook, fiddling with something inside. "I think it's best if—"

"Emma, listen. I should be the one apologizing…I wasn't being honest with you just now." He grabbed her arm, spun her around. "I went above and beyond for you because…well, because I like you."

She glowered at him. "I don't need your pity payoffs, Jones. I know you feel sorry for me, but—"

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I wish mercy upon anyone who feels sorry for you. You don't need it; you've gotten by on your smarts and common sense, and I've got—I've got nothing but admiration for you."

Her eyes widened in genuine bafflement. "Are you—I mean to say—_really_?"

"Aye. I _like_ you, Emma, since before we even met in person. More than I've liked bloody _anyone_ in a long time. I want the best for you—you're beautiful, and brash, and brave, and you don't deserve any of this bloody nonsense—" He broke off, rubbing furiously between his eyes. "I shouldn't be saying any of this." Killian's hand closed in a fist around his hat, crushing it, though he seemed to take no notice. He turned away. "Bloody _fuck_!" he growled as he started storming away down the street, making some poor au pair pushing a stroller jump about a mile high.

Emma stood watching him go, sucking her bottom lip in to keep from grinning like someone affected in the head. The warmth blooming in the center of her chest hadn't been felt since her orphanage days, when one of the little boys had always insisted on pouring half his morning porridge into her bowl. Of course, she hadn't even been able to enjoy that for long; he was farmed out to a seminary in upstate New York after only a few months. That was how things went: the world was full of beastly types, with a smattering of good ones who never stuck around for long. How long would Killian Jones be around for? Emma stared down at the scuffed toes of her spectator pumps.

"I like you, too, Killian," she almost whispered. "I like you, too."

* * *

><p><em>CIA Headquarters, Buenos Aires<em>

"Have a seat, Miss Blanchard," Regina ordered, as soon as Emma walked into her office two days after her dinner at the Rumpelsteigers. Killian was already present, foot jiggling restlessly against his opposite knee. "I have to say, the CIA and MI6 are _very_ intrigued by this opportunity you're presenting us with."

Emma's brow furrowed; she glanced at Killian, who was also giving Regina a puzzled look. "I wouldn't say it's so much an opportunity, Agent Mills, as a predicament. You see, the younger Rumpel—"

Regina waved a hand at her face. "Agent Jones has briefed us on the facts, Miss Blanchard. However, I still view the question that's been put to you as an _opportunity_."

Emma folded her arms defensively across her chest, not sure she liked where this was headed. "How so? The man's asked me to _marry_ him, Mills! Surely, you all can't expect me to—I mean, that's taking things a bit far, don'tcha think?"

Emma felt further unsettled when Regina simply stubbed out her current cig placidly, before fixing an unworried gaze on Emma again.

"I could sit here, and wax poetic about what an unparalleled stroke of luck it is, to be offered a first-class ticket into the heart of the operation—something a seasoned agent would give their right arm for. Or perhaps you'd prefer I beg you, get down on my knees, try and impart to you the virtues of giving oneself up for the good of many."

"That's not necess—"

"But I won't, Miss Blanchard. Flowery words and groveling are unquestionably not my style. So I'll give you the gritty on what currently affects you. I heard the oh-so-generous offer Agent Jones informed you about. Quite nice of him to think about your well-being, considering you survive, wasn't it? Went right over my head about it, too. Unfortunately, in our respective organizations, we have the greater good to think of—not the individual. While Agent Humbert originally agreed to Jones' little set-up for you, he's come around. If you thought you were getting any sort of _prize_ merely for going through the motions here, _ma'am_, you're sorely mistaken."

Emma's eyes were full of unshed tears as she turned them on Killian. "You lied to me."

"Lass, I swear, I didn't—"

"Not that I give a damn what odd little _thing_ you two have going on, Miss Blanchard, but Agent Jones had no knowledge of this. I had a concern, which I discussed with Agent Humbert, my supervisor. Namely, that the CIA shouldn't get into the habit of setting up every flunkey that throws us a bone." She paused, blew a ringlet of smoke into Emma's face. "We've just established a solid infrastructure, and our funds are better utilized elsewhere. However, I'm sure I could persuade Humbert to put you up at least somewhere better than that drafty flophouse you were in when we found—"

"If?" Emma spat. "Don't yank my chain, Mills, I'm losing patience. Honestly, going back to what I had before is starting to sound infinitely better than listening to you for one more second."

Regina just arched an eyebrow. "Well, I should think it would be obvious. After all, you presented the dilemma yourself."

A cold weight dropped into the pit of Emma's stomach. "You're going to make me accept his proposal."

"Now, wait one moment—," Killian got up from his seat.

"This doesn't concern you, Jones," Regina said calmly. "The decision is up to _her_."

"_Decision_," Emma snorted, tapping her index finger against her temple in mock-deep thought. "Let's see here, Mills: get married to some lowdown Nazi on the lam, and live under the watch of his suspicious father, too; or, refuse and get sent back to the slums of New York to forage, until the day I'm murdered by a john or starve to death?" She saw Killian's knuckles whiten on the chair arm.

Regina gave her a wide, phony grin. "For an uneducated panhandler, you certainly catch on quickly."

"Fuck yourself with a broomstick, Mills," Emma replied. "That's what you rode in on anyways, correct?"

Despite everything, Killian bit back a grin at Regina's rapid blinks, her slackjaw—he doubted anyone had dared speak like that to her in her whole miserable existence.

Emma continued. "I need to think on this."

Regina recovered from her shock, lit up another of her cigarettes. "You have 24 hours. Call the office within that time frame, or I'll have you forcibly put on a plane back to the States."

Emma pushed herself to her feet unsteadily, headed towards the door. Killian started to get up again.

"Don't bother," Emma said, holding up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. Her voice was flat, eyes dull. "I'd rather be alone right now. I'll get a taxi."

Killian slumped back into the chair as the door slammed, rattling the knickknacks on Regina's desk. She met his glowering scowl indifferently, leaning back and exhaling a puff of smoke.

"Nothing to get pinched at me for, Jones, the ultimate ruling wasn't mine."

"Don't play the fool with me, you ghastly shrew," Killian bit out, reveling in her sputtering. "You may have Humbert wrapped around your little finger—or should I say he's got _you_ wrapped around his waist, most nights? But you haven't got the wool pulled over _my_ eyes. "

Regina's nostrils flared, her wrist stopped midway to her mouth for another drag. "How—how dare you speak to me like that?! Do you know what I can—"

"Yes, yes, you'll ruin me, get me tossed out of MI6 without warning—you don't alarm me in the slightest. I suspect that's why you loathe me, and why you loathe Emma, too. She's wise to your tricks, and for the record, Mills, she's worth a million of you."

She let out a snort. "That bottom-dwelling, dirty—"

"Think of her however you like; it makes no difference to me. But," Killian got up, having had enough of the icy battle-ax, "think on this. You hate Emma because she's strong in spite of her upbringing, because she's _had_ to do what you only do for fun. You've both been on your backs to get what you needed, only she's done it to survive, and you do it to play people against each other, have a gas at others' expenses. I'd defer to Emma anyday over a bloody hypocrite like you."

And with that, Killian let himself out, not even bothering to look back and take pleasure in Regina's fury this time.

* * *

><p>Once she'd arrived home and made her excuses to Anna for forgoing dinner—headache—Emma retired to her bedroom, curling up in the center of her comforter, mind a chaotic whirlpool. God, she thought she'd been in some dire circumstances before, but this…. For all Killian's talk of making sure she wasn't going to be a part of some government chess game, she was certainly a pawn now. The "choice" was fairly cut 'n dry, but was she <em>truly<em> a tough enough customer to plunge into the deep end? Surely Killian would think so, but Emma wasn't feeling too confident in his opinion at the moment.

She rolled over on her back, feeling guilty—there was no cause to get angry at Killian over the turmoil his originally thoughtful gift to her had devolved into, he'd obviously had nothing to do with the CIA reneging on their offer. Never in her whole life would she have thought this was where she'd end up. It was all just bonkers, that's what it was.

For the first time since she'd agreed to the undercover sting, and had her life turned topsy-turvy, Emma felt a glimmer of apprehension. If she did this, no longer would she be on the outskirts, venturing into the thick of things at requested intervals. No, now she'd be delivering herself straight into the heart of the lion's den—and she couldn't foresee the outcome, no matter how she tried.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thanks to everyone who's been reading-this was kind of a build-up chapter, but I hope you liked it anyways!**


	5. Chapter 5

_So, there's some hopping around with the flashbacks this chap, though I've tried to make it as seamless as possible. And for those of you who aren't crazy about the back 'n forth: I'm anticipating that this'll be the last chapter with them. Buuut, I reserve the right to change my mind ;) This chap was hard to get out, then all of a sudden I had a burst of inspiration-which means the next chap is already half done. Wahey!_

* * *

><p><em>Five and a half months ago, Washington D.C<em>.

"May I walk you home?"

Emma looked up from the photographs quickly, startled by the voice, to see Killian lounging against the doorframe, arms crossed. "How long were you lurking there?" she demanded sharply.

He scratched nervously at a spot behind his ear, not looking directly at her. "Look, Swan, I'm…sorry about that whole outburst earlier. Definitely not in good form."

Emma released the photos before her nerves crunched them into wads. "Are you sorry because you were just saying that to make me feel better, or you're sorry because you wish you _didn't_ like me?"

He shoved his hands in his pockets, crossed then uncrossed his ankles. "Can we get the bloody hell out of here first before we have this conversation?"

Emma grinned at his nervous tics, but pushed herself to her feet. "Alright then, Jones. Yes, you may walk me home." She slid her hand to the crook of his arm.

Killian relaxed marginally as they left Headquarters. At least she didn't seem to be tense or angry over what he'd let slip earlier. And she seemed content for the moment to just carry on in companionable silence.

Once they were within a few paces from her apartment building, she gave him a nudge of her hip. "Out with it, Hook."

He groaned inwardly; he should've known she wouldn't just let it go. "Right, then. So it's—I—it was definitely the latter. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable in the midst of all this upheaval, lass. You've got enough on your plate as is." He swallowed slowly, then decided to continue. "Don't worry, Swan, I shan't be some lech staring after—"

"_Ilikeyoutoo_!"

He stopped, turned and looked down at her, eyebrows shooting sky-high. "Pardon?"

She let go of him, took a step back. "I like you too, Killian, ever since—well, let's just say _I'm_ more of the lech here. I've never liked anyone and had it turn out well for me." She looked down, digging her toe into the pavement. "It just always means trouble, in the end. But…."

Without warning, Emma jumped up on her toes and swung her arms around his neck—giving him only a brief warning before her lips were on his. He closed his eyes, sinking into the intoxicating feel, taste, and smell of her as her warm mouth melded to his, her suede-gloved hands twisting into the hair at the nape of his neck. There was some kind of floral scent wafting from her that he hadn't noticed earlier, a tang of oregano still on her tongue. Killian moved his prosthesis to her waist to pull her closer, and his hand to cup the back of her head, probably spoiling her hairdo, but bugger it all because _his_ Emma was kissing him. Quite avidly, in fact. Distantly, he was aware of some impudent newspaper boy giving a low whistle as he walked home from a day hocking his wares, an old bird clucking in their direction as she strode past walking her poodle.

Emma broke away first, resting her hands lightly on his shoulders, a small smile on her face at his dazed expression. "I—I'm kinda stuck on you, too, Killian," she murmured, their noses bumping as she backed away, scuttling backwards through her door, closing it in Killian's face before he knew what hit him.

Emma leaned back against her front door, heart skipping wildly. Damn, but he was just as fantastic a kisser as she'd imagined, far too often in the long nights since she'd met him. If she was still in the midst of her stint as a street seductress, she wouldn't have had any issue with wrapping one long leg around Killian's waist as they kissed outside her house for all to see, and dragging him into her abode afterwards. But she'd been handed this new, conventional persona, and she meant to own it, at least for as long as she could resist the pull between the two of them. She was going to look like, act like, and just plain enjoy _being_ a fucking respectable member of polite society—for however long she was destined to live.

* * *

><p>Thus began a kind of evening ritual, without either of them noticing at first: Killian would wait for Emma's studies to conclude for the day, and, if she wasn't with him already, would walk her to her apartment. The first few nights ended with a kiss much like the one that started it all, which gradually escalated within a couple weeks to full-out snogging sessions just inside Emma's doorway, to avoid spectators. Killian felt foolish, but he honestly hadn't just plain enjoyed kissing a woman since his days as a naval cadet—and even then he was sure it was the uniform that had been the initial lure.<p>

"Swan," Killian murmured, as he alternated applying little nips and kisses to her neck. "We're leaving in two days."

Emma froze, eyes flying open, her hands freezing mid-tangle in his thick hair. Suddenly it was hard to breathe; she really hadn't been thinking on the impending date. It was much easier just to pretend this cycle of a respectable job and a divinely handsome man walking her home at night might just continue to infinity. But good things didn't last, not in her world.

_Just ask him to stay. No, he'll think you're easy. But he already knows all about—_

"Swan?" Killian ran a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. He couldn't believe he was even thinking of—he'd never indulged with another part of Intelligence before, though Emma really was more of a fringe element—

She exhaled loudly. "Yes, yes, I heard you. I suppose what you're getting at is that this"—she gestured between them—"whatever this is, has to end."

He took another step, then another, until there was brick at her back and there was nowhere else to look.

"On the contrary, lass. I'd like…I'd like to come in. If you'll have me."

Emma actually raised a hand to her face to make sure she wasn't gaping at him like she'd gone soft in the head. He wanted her? After everything he knew, had seen….A frission of heat curled in the pit of stomach, the desire spreading warmly out along her limbs. Did she want Killian Jones, top MI6 agent, devastatingly handsome scoundrel, in _her_ bed? God, she couldn't think of anything she'd wanted more in her fucking _life_. Holding her chin lightly, his thumb on the small dent in it, he tilted his face towards her, only to be met by her ducked head.

"Problem, darling?" He cupped his hand to his face, huffed into it. "My breath isn't putrid, is it?"

"No!" Emma swatted him lightly on the arm. "It's just—I mean—is this kind of thing…sanctioned?"

"I've never really been the type to give a fig what my fellow agents or, indeed, what anyone thinks, but if you—"

She ran a hand up his arm, cupping his shoulder. "I haven't cared about peoples' opinions of me in a long time, either, Killian. I just don't want to get you hung out to dry here. Especially over someone like—"

"I don't think I like where that comment's headed, Emma, so just can it." He linked his stiff, gloved prosthetic's fingers with hers. "But if you want this as much as I, let me reassure you—I can be _very_ discreet." A devilish gleam shone in his eye.

She practically yanked him off his feet as she pulled him through the doorway.

* * *

><p>Emma sat up, slightly befuddled in her half-awake state when she realized he wasn't beside her. A glance up showed him looking out her bedroom window, and Emma relaxed, her cheek propped against her fist as she admired his hard-muscled buttocks, looking like a sculpture in the full moon's light. She'd never imagined coming together with a man could be so gentle, and yet at the same time so <em>hungry<em>—for _her_, of all women. For once, her partner had been committed to satisfying her; honestly, it was somewhat unsettling. Though, she thought, she could _definitely_ get used to it. Her cheeks heated as she replayed Killian's talented mouth and cock driving her to ecstasy several times, until they'd both collapsed apart, chests heaving and torsos slick with sweat.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to stare, darling?"

Emma smiled sheepishly and rose to her feet. "I would ask if you could blame me, but I don't think your ego needs any further inflation." She walked over to him, pressing her breasts to his back, sliding her hands around his front to lie against his pectorals. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing per se…just thinking of those I lost a long time ago."

It was probably a given that it had to do with the war, and Emma didn't think it was her place to ask about a still-open wound. "I'm sorry," she settled on lamely, fingertips pressing lightly into his chest.

"Think nothing of it, lass. My cross to bear, and all that dross." He turned around in her arms; his offhand grin was back. "What say you? Go back to bed, and—"

"You know, Killian…you can talk to me. About anything."

He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. "I believe you." He gave her a light smack on the bottom. "I promise, one day you'll know all you ever wanted to know about Killian Jones, and probably some things you didn't."

She pinched him between the ribs. "I'm going to hold you to that."

After one last, feverish coupling that night, Emma rolled over, too exhausted to do anything but let her eyes droop shut. Killian moved to her back, pulling her against him while he buried his nose in her hair. "Hope you're at least feeling a bit more relaxed about flying out now?"

"That's one way of phrasing it," she mumbled, burrowing against him lazily. She'd never felt more bone-achingly content.

"Someday, Swan," he intoned lowly, as she drifted off to sleep, "Someday, I'll tell you everything."

* * *

><p><em>Hipódromo de Palermo Racetrack<em>

Emma squinted across the stands. _What the hell? It couldn't be_—But it was: there was Killian, binoculars in hand, seated several rows away, but close enough to make her feel ill at ease.

"Something wrong, my sweet?"

Giving Regina a ring by the end of the day was inevitable, but at least, Emma had decided, she could distract herself from it as long as possible. Best to let the biddy squirm until the last minute. It was petty, she knew, but after the way she'd been treated, Regina certainly deserved none of her consideration.

Bae had invited her out to the very same racetrack she had first stumbled into him at—she'd "accidentally" trod upon a handful of his race tickets that had fluttered to the ground when another agent had artfully shoved past him. As soon as the fool had looked up at her, awestruck, Emma knew she had the trout on the line. If it weren't for his father and cronies, it would've been a piece of cake reeling him in already.

She looked around at the men she'd come to be familiar with. Well, it was her job to be familiar with them. Once she'd finagled that first invite to a Rumpelsteiger dinner party, Killian had told her to report back with guests' names, discernable accents to point Intelligence towards their origins, and whatever profession they'd taken up in Argentina. And she had, to the best of her abilities. The next day, once Killian had spoken with the Queen Bitch and Humbert, he'd shown her just what she was dealing with.

* * *

><p><em>3 Months Earlier<em>

Emma walked into the small office just off Regina's (luckily, the other woman hadn't been around), and was greeted by a conference table covered with what were obviously photographs, face-down.

She looked up at Killian, eyebrow raised. "You certainly have a flair for melodrama."

He only gave her an easy grin, completely nonplussed. "What can I say, have to have some way to liven up the proceedings when I'm not in your company."

She didn't take the bait, looking down and pressing her fingertips below the first photo. "May I?"

Instead of answering, he flipped it over himself. "You've become so self-sufficient, you have to let me think I'm still needed for some things, Swan." They both glance down.

"Victor Whale, according to you, née Wetzel. Our good Herr Doktor here was known during wartime as the Butcher of Buchenwald, for committing atrocities such as experimentation on twins, pregnant women—he'd cut them open for—"

Emma held up her hands. "I'm not a squeamish person, Killian, but please don't get into details. They might just make me throttle him myself."

He gave her one of those admiring glances she'd begun to notice more and more. "If you insist, darling. Can't afford damage to the periphery group, I'm afraid."

She pursed her lips as she examined the photo. "Hasn't done much to make himself inconspicuous in the years since, has he? Same dark glasses, black trenchcoat." Her hand fluttered at her neck. "All that's missing these days is the Iron Cross on his lapel."

"Aye, fleeing the mother country hasn't diminished his arrogance much, it seems. Moving on…" He flipped over the next one. "Jefferson Ryder, you say. Try Johannes Ritter, ex-spy and sometimes torturer for the Third Reich. Watch your words around him; he's firmly in the Rumpelsteigers' pockets.

"I _know_; I'm not a blithering idiot," Emma retorted sharply.

"Don't get your feathers ruffled, Swan; it's just a reminder," Killian said mildly, as he flipped the penultimate photo. "August Bude. Turncoat. Was in the French Resistance, and sold them out for a tidy sum. Nearly everyone in his immediate group was shot while escaping the Sturmabteilung—er, sorry love, _Stormtroopers_—and the rest of the organization was severely fractured after that. Miracle they were able to recoup for the later part of the skirmish, really."

Emma's fingertips curled back from the photo's edges, as though she could be tainted just from the man's likeness, her gaze flicking distastefully over the three face-up photos. "Any chance the drawing and quartering system could come back into fashion, for the right prisoners?"

Killian laughed. "Bloodthirsty little duckling, aren't you? I like it. Unfortunately, these clods are considered small fish by the CIA and MI6. Though that also translates to neither team caring if they're collateral damage, in the end." He gave her a wink as he went to reveal the last Rumpelsteiger crony. Emma's breath caught in her throat; she hoped it wasn't Elsa. She knew it was unwise to feel anything for one of them, but nevertheless, she just couldn't fathom someone with Elsa's temperament being some cold-blooded Nazi officer or sympathizer. Her gut instincts had never failed her before; she hated putting aside what she just _knew_ for how the stuffed shirts running the whole enterprise were telling her to approach the situation.

The set of her shoulders relaxed once the final photo was revealed.

"We're actually not sure who he is, lass, so if you know anything—" He gestured frustratedly at the young man with long sideburns.

"Hans," she said immediately. "Sorry, I don't—I haven't heard the others use a last name." Her nose wrinkled. "Of course, I haven't heard how he fits into their group, but he's a loathsome type. Always needling at Elsa, for some reason. I've already had to tell him to buzz off."

Killian gave his ear a scratch, fixing her with a contemplative look. "_Emma_," he said sternly, eyes narrowing. "I understand you're in a new, precarious setting, but that doesn't mean it's wise to form an attachment to the only other female in the Rumpelsteigers' inner circle."

"Why?" Emma demanded, gesturing to the strewn-out photos. "She's not here. What'd you know about her, Jones?"

He stepped up so he was right in her face, arms crossed, tone no-nonsense. "I have about as much knowledge of her as you, Swan, which is slim to none. And if the higher-ups haven't graced me with any of her backstory, that probably means she's not worth much to the ex-Nazi cause. Nevertheless, she's still a niece and cousin of the Rumpelsteigers', and that's all you need to know. _Capisce_?"

"Huh?"

He grasped one of her arms with his good hand, thumb digging into the soft skin of her upper arm. "Casualties are a given in this business, but I won't have you dropping your guard and waving yourself around like a red flag, no matter who you think is some noble soul deep down, or whatever your cockamamie hunches tell you. Do we understand each other here, _Agent_?"

Emma pulled her arm out of his grip. "Understood, you bloody blighter," she snarled back, in an awful imitation of a Cockney accent.

Killian merely fixed her with his usual imperturbable smirk. "Excellent."

* * *

><p><em>Hipódromo de Palermo Racetrack<em>

Her gaze slid stealthily back in Killian's direction. Why on earth was he being so brazen? Emma turned to her quarry, hoping the wide-eyed look she was trying to project hit its mark.

"Dearest, I'm afraid I've run dry. Shall I get us more champagne?"

Bae started to stand. "I can—"

His father reached out, clamping down on Baelthazar's wrist. "When your woman asks to serve you, you damn well let her."

_You have no idea how much I'm _not_ his woman, you old goat_, Emma fumed internally, linking her hands behind her back. She felt like if she didn't, they might drift up and wrap around Rumpelsteiger's neck of their own accord. Instead, all her audience got was a treacly smile. "It's no trouble, Bae," she grit out, turning to go.

"Fetch me some too, eh? There's a good girl," Dr. Whale called out behind her, which she pretended not to hear as she strode away as quickly as possible.

"What in tarnation do you think you're doing?" she muttered out the corner of her mouth, daintily crossing her arms over the railing while staring straight ahead. She had gone to get the champagne first for show. If any of those stooges questioned her absence, she'd just say she'd been accosted by an acquaintance she'd met on the plane coming over.

She could see Killian watching her from the corner of her eye. "That bloody tosser can't keep his hands to himself for a second, can he?" His voice was carefully level, but she could hear the underlying vexation.

She gave what she hoped looked like a casual shrug. "He's to be my fiancé. I've already put off intimacy, but I can't very well deny him everything before we're wed. Then he would _definitely_ throw me off for another."

The penetrating gaze he gave her was unsettling. "I think you underestimate your appeal, in every sense, Swan." He took a vulgarly large swallow of champagne, nearly draining the glass. "Fiancé, then. So you've made up your mind." His fists tightened on the railing.

Emma tried to look like she was having a gay old time, but her tight smile looked like more of a grimace. "Don't be thick. You know I didn't have much say in the matter." She let out a weak laugh. "Haven't told queenie darling yet, though." She took a small sip. "Can I—can I come over later? After I've, well…notified the witch?"

"If you feel the need, darling," he said casually. "If you haven't given in to your young man yet."

Emma slid her foot over, digging her heel into the top of his fancy shoe. "Don't be vile," she said lowly, taking some comfort in the pain etched on his brow. "Are you going to be a gentleman again?" She gave another grind for emphasis, and he nodded imperceptibly. "Good." She released the pressure.

He gave her a sidelong glance, fighting a smile. "You can be quite juvenile. Where'd you get the idea you can get what you want by pulling those schoolyard tactics?"

"I just did," she answered silkily, and Killian grabbed Bae's glass of champagne and took a gulp.

"You _oaf_!"

* * *

><p>"Wasn't that curious, my son?"<p>

"Eh?" Bae turned a glazed expression on his father, annoyed at his attention being pulled from the horses. "What's happened?"

"Your young woman. Coming back now, but she was talking with that debonair gentleman for quite some time," he replied, gesturing at Killian, who was focused back on the race activity, binoculars shielding his face.

"I—I didn't…I'm sure there's nothing odd about it," Bae insisted.

"Has she given you an answer yet?"

"She said she'd tell me after the race."

Rumpelsteiger tsked, clapped a hand down on Bae's shoulder. "You're the man here, _junge_. And you'd better start controlling this fledgling household you're attempting to create. Nothing makes a family go to pieces like the man letting the wife call the shots. Not to mention make his colleagues"—he jerked his head towards Dr. Whale, Ritter, and Bude—"lose all respect for him."

Bae finally gave his father his full attention. "What're you suggesting, father?"

"You'll insist on an answer once she reaches us again. If there's nothing untoward about Miss Blanchard's actions just now, she'll say 'yes'. But women have their wiles…she could drag out this ridiculous engagement for months. That's why you're getting married this Saturday."

"Saturday?! That's impossible, that's—"

"It's not, and you will," Rumpelsteiger returned sharply. "For the reasons I've laid out."

Emma returned to a strangely subdued Bae, his father and their friends watching them surreptitiously. Her brow furrowed. "Sorry I took a bit," she said apologetically, holding out a glass.

Bae's mouth was pressed into a grim line. "Who was that, Emma?"

Dammit. No use feigning puzzlement; Bae wasn't _completely_ feeble-minded. Though going by his smug smirk, Emma would bet his father had something to do with calling her out.

"Oh, ah, that was just a nice man I met on the plane to Argentina. Helped me carry my bags from the gate."

"A somewhat involved-looking discussion for a mere passing acquaintance, Miss Blanchard," Rumpelsteiger piped in. "Why, one might surmise you were old chums. Lovers, even."

Without a second thought, Emma tossed the dregs of her glass right in Rumpelsteiger's face. "I don't take kindly to such insinuations about my character, sir," she forced out, in deceptively placid tones. Inside, she felt like a tornado was swirling through her, making her dizzy. But she was damned if this cunning snake would destroy everything. She hoped she'd played the insulted rich girl card well; it wasn't like she had experience fighting back against verbal abuse. It had been just another hazard of the trade in her old life.

"Don't fret, sweet, he doesn't mean it," Bae said hurriedly, stepping between them. He gave her shoulder a light squeeze. "But—but I really must insist, Emma. I need to know your answer to my proposal. _Now_."

"Now? Why, what's the hurry?"

"If you love me," Bae said, face getting redder, "You'll marry me. Soon. At the courthouse this Saturday. And if not...well, maybe my father isn't as senile as he seems."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: As always, I'm so glad for those of you who've encouraged me to continue with this fic-you know who you are. Also, for any of you who're also Tumblrers, question: can you not paste Word text into a post anymore with those stupid updates? I was trying to, and it just kept coming out a big mess. Help!**


	6. Chapter 6

_Just a forewarning: This is possibly the angstiest chapter I've ever written, in **any** work. However, I did really enjoy writing this part the most thus far. OK...on with the show!_

* * *

><p>The metallic index finger had already dug a groove into the small tabletop, but Killian was unrelenting. He stared down at his handiwork, eyelids heavy. "Gonna…gonna drill right true…<em>through<em> you, unnerstan'? Gonna dig—dig me way ta China before—" He let go of the end table, slithering ungracefully down to the floor.

What the devil was the matter with him? Getting blind drunk over a _woman_? Killian Jones wasn't subject to such base reactions. Ever since his handicap had drummed him out of active service, then after—well, he hadn't let another person twist him into such dire straits in a _long_ time. And now, after just a few months, this accursed, fiery blonde wench had _him_—flippant, closed-off Killian Jones—over a barrel. He'd never felt more at loose ends.

A knock at his door barely filtered through his rum-induced haze, and he chose to ignore it. "Mebbe…mebbe there I can open a—open a rice farm…no, no. A rice _diner_. Yeah, yeah, that's the ticket. I'll—"

There was the knocking again, louder this time, with some accompanying talk that Killian didn't put the effort of deciphering into. "Go 'way! Bloody 'ell, what's a man got to do 'round here for a lil' peace and—"

The door suddenly gave way, and from his cozy position nestled sideways on the throw rug, Killian had an uncomparable view of a pair of bright red slingbacks forming into shapely ankles, into shapely calves, into—

Emma shoved him over onto his back with her foot on his shoulder. "Stop trying to look up my skirt, you lout." She raised her head, gave a delicate sniff. "Cripes, is that…you?" She bent over his prone form. "Ugh, it is. You smell like a drunk tank. What the hell have you been getting up to?"

Killian managed to pull himself to his knees; Emma laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Getting' soused off me arse, til you bloody showed up and ruined it. How'd you get in here?"

She planted her hands on her hips. "You forget, Jones—B&E was part of my rap sheet. I'd even say I was damn good at it, except the times I got caught," she said with an embarrassed grin. "So…you want me to go?"

"Good God, yes!"

"Liar." Emma took her hands off her hips, stooped and grabbed him under his arms, making him flinch and yelp. She gave him a sly smile. "Ticklish, hmm? I'll have to remember that."

He squirmed. "Whaddya think yer doing?"

"Getting you into the bathtub," she said, struggling to pull him to a standing position. She tightened her grip around his waist. "No use fighting me off, Jones; I've dealt with worse than you."

Reluctantly, Killian did his best to stumble along with her the few feet into the bathroom, though they moved as though they were participating in a three-legged race.

"Oomph!" Emma braced him against the vanity, bowed her head, and started to undo his buttons, then his brace.

"Yer—_you're_ being quite forward for an engaged woman, Swan."

She stilled just long enough for him to know his comment had found a mark. "Why…why don't we have that conversation later, Killian. Once you've had time to sleep this off."

He let out a loud, scratchy cough. "I shan't sleep anything off. I'm _dying_, can't you see!"

Emma rolled her eyes, and went over to turn on the faucet in the claw-foot tub. "And they say women are the frailer sex."

Once Killian was safely lowered into the lukewarm water, Emma stationed herself in the armchair outside, leaving the bathroom door open—she wanted to make sure he didn't keel over and half-drown himself. She leaned back against the headrest, letting her eyes flutter shut. A part of her wanted to dismiss this whole drunken display as macho bravado. True, he must care for her to _some_ degree at this point…but he also knew where she'd come from. Whatever else he was, it was obvious he hadn't come from a life of hard-knocks. He would never deign to have her—Emma scrubbed a weary hand over her face. Thinking about herself and Killian in any kind of future terms was only going to drive her to melancholy and drink. And neither would do for her assignment, or sanity.

"_Swaaaan_," Killian's sing-song tone carried from the bathroom. "Take mercy, and come dry a fellow off, would you?"

Emma scowled, got up and marched over to the linen closet next to the bathroom door. "Here!" She pitched a towel through the doorway, in the direction of the tub without glancing in. She grinned as she walked back to her chair, hearing his muffled curse. She didn't even get the chance to try and relax again, though, before a pair of bare feet moved into her line of vision,

"_Hook_," she growled, glancing up. "Just what the hell are you doing?"

"Ohhh, so it's 'Hook' in private as well, now? Am I in trouble, darling?"

"I gave you a towel to wrap yourself in, make yourself decent," she replied, her gaze going heavenward. Was he trying to drive her up the wall? She gave a quick peek again; he certainly seemed more sober than he had half an hour ago, though he swayed slightly on the spot and his eyes were heavy-lidded—she couldn't tell if _that_ was from alcohol or lustful intent.

"But I did," Killian gestured towards the turban form on his head before planting both hand and stump on his hips, the rest of him naked as a jaybird. "I didn't think we stood on such formalities anymore."

She let out a tsk as she crossed to him, snapped the towel from his head, and tucked it hurriedly around his waist. "Yes, well…I think it's best we get used to it sooner than later." Emma shifted uncomfortably. "Killian…Baelthazar's insisting I marry him on Saturday—_this _Saturday."

His brows bunched together, a stormy expression descending over his features, but he remained silent as he walked over to his makeshift bar table, reaching for his rum.

"Is rum your solution to everything?" Emma demanded sharply, then in a softer voice, "Killian…please don't. Let's talk instead."

He set the bottle back with an exaggerated effort, and Emma leapt up, sliding an arm around his middle. "But first, rest." She led him to the bed, toeing off her shoes, then set him down and moved a pillow beneath his head while she knelt on the mattress.

"I'm not an infant, woman," Killian protested, yet without trying to stop her. There was something sadly sweet about it all as he let himself be tended to. He couldn't help to not only wonder about the last time she'd done this for anyone, if ever, but also to try—and fail—to remember the last someone had done something similar for him. Certainly, it had to be in the vicinity of sometime over seven years ago now, but he refused to let his mind stray there. He felt Emma move behind him, her breasts warm against his back even through her blouse, and her cheek against his shoulder blade. Her arm wrapped around his front, clasping his fingers snugly in her hand.

"Do you want me to stay?"

His fingers linking with hers was all the answer she needed.

* * *

><p>When Killian awoke, it was dark outside and Emma was still nuzzled into his back, her breathing evened out in contented slumber. He turned slowly in her arms to face her, his good hand smoothing the hair back from her face. Asleep, she looked like she hadn't a care in the world, just like her cover persona. If things were fair in this world, Killian though angrily, she wouldn't have had the life she did, and good people wouldn't die in war—hell, there would <em>be<em> no war—

"Killian?" Emma blinked awake, staring at him curiously, her voice groggy. "Are you alright?"

He stiffened, caught in the act. "No," he grumbled, moving back to prop himself against the headboard. His brain beat painfully in his skull. "No, I'm bloody well not. Was it my intoxicated fever dream, or did you say you're getting married in six days time?"

She moved to sit up as well, laying a hand against his knee. "It can't be helped, Killian. Bae asked, but—but by his tone, I could tell there wasn't room for negotiation. It was agree, or blow the whole operation. And we've…we've come so far already." She looked down, biting her lip as she traced nonsensical patterns along his bare leg. "I suspect that dratted father of his has been putting…ideas into his head. He feels something's off about me, though I can't see where I've given him reason to."

"There was always the risk the old crocodile wouldn't accept you," Killian said hollowly, a desperate tug in the center of his chest unfurling. _You can't let her do this._

"Be that as it may," Emma prattled on, unaware of his distress, "I figured what was the difference, if I was going to be marrying the fiend at some point, in the end."

"Emma, there's—you don't have to do this, lass. I'll—I can find some way—"

"What are my options? Are _you_ going to marry me, Jones? Make a decent woman out of me?" She paused momentarily, her heart seized up with a foolish glimmer of hope—but there was no response. Killian only pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. "No…no, I hadn't thought so." She continued as though she weren't shattering into a million pieces. "Think sensibly. Would a respectable man like yourself ever really, truly take someone…someone like me, who used to steal and give up their body for survival, to tend their home, wear their ring, bear their children? I knew how this would end, Killian. I knew—"

Now he looked up, eyes suspiciously shiny. "Emma, _darling_, please don't. I swear—"

"Yes, yes, you swore one day you'd tell me everything. Well, Killian, it looks like that deadline's been expedited." She propped herself up on an elbow, not taking her eyes off him. "If you…if you care anything for me, you'll tell me everything, no matter how this ends up. What's the harm, really? I could be killed in a few days, a few months—"

He grabbed her upper arms, gave her a shake. "Don't talk like that, Goddammit!"

"Why not," Emma cried out, wriggling in his iron grip. "It's true, I've known it from the start. You've never promised me anything but this, Killian, and I've never pressed you for more. Make good on it, or I'm leaving."

He gave a great sigh, and eased himself horizontal again. If this was all she wanted, surely he could give her this at least, before everything went topsy-turvy. He held out his arm. "Come here, love." Emma moved to settle her head against his chest, hand toying with his thicket of chest hair. "What should you like to know?"

"Everything. How you got to be here, doing this, why you can't—can't bring yourself to feel for me," she said in a small voice. "_Everything_."

Not feel for her? Blasted woman—but that was a whole different conversation. Where to start for now? Killian pushed at the fogginess still edging his consciousness, willed his mind to drift back to unpleasant memories. He was silent for so long, Emma almost looked up to see if he'd fallen back asleep, when his voice startled her.

"About—well, it's been near a decade now—my brother—Liam—and I were both in the British Navy, and entered the War right after Britain declared their intents against the Axis powers in 1939."

Emma started lightly stroking down his arm opposite from her, in what she hoped was a soothing gesture. "I'm listening."

"Liam…well, he was more than a brother, Swan. Our father left when we were young, and once our mother succumbed to illness, he practically raised me." His eyes closed, but he continued. "Being of higher rank, he did his best to get us stationed together whenever possible. Understand, lass—I was young and foolish during all this. The Jones brothers, going off on adventures and bringing peace and prosperity to tumultuous regions." His arm around her clenched. "I was an imbecile."

She looked quickly up, then back down, not wanting to break his rhythm. Emma got the feeling if she spoke, the spell would be broken and he'd clam up again, this time forever.

"Near about two years into my enlistment, I met a girl whilst on shore leave. Don't fret, love, this is all relevant," he continued, tone turned mocking, though Emma gathered it was directed more at himself, and his perceived past naïveté, than at her.

"She was beautiful, vibrant, looked at me like I was some bloody hero…and I ate it all up. We were immature, but still…we were in love. Her name was Milah."

_Were? Was?_ Emma's hand quit stroking without her notice. She hoped, she really hoped this wasn't headed where she thought it—

"Anyways," he went on brusquely, "Late 1942, Liam and I were stationed together, as always. We were fighting along the Norwegian coast, when—when a U-boat torpedoed us. The entire bloody ship sank."

"And your—your brother?" Emma blurted out, letting out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

"Liam went the way most of our crew that day did. There were only two other survivors besides myself—and look, Swan, I've even got a souvenir," he snarled, hoisting his stumped arm up briefly.

She clutched him tighter. "Holy hell."

"That's one way of putting it. But I still thought things weren't completely hopeless—I was still in love with a wonderful woman, if you recall. Helped with my rehabilitation, first suggested MI6 when I was grumbling about feeling useless. And then—well, I asked her if she'd like to enter into an engagement with me, Swan." Another long pause. "She said yes."

Emma squeezed her eyes shut. Her hunch was right; this was definitely going nowhere positive.

"We decided we'd wait to wed til after the war. Meanwhile, MI6 lost no time utilizing me whichever way they could, and I decided it was best if Milah went back to stay with her family while I was away on assignment. I didn't like the idea of her being left alone for such long stretches."

"And you—you drifted apart?"

He barked out a humorless laugh. "For all you've been through, you can still be quite the tireless little optimist, Swan. No, we did no such thing. She was out on a drive with her mother, and pulled over when an airfight began some distance ahead of them—for _safety_." There was that bone-chilling chortle again. "The German plane was going down, firing wildly. Apparently…apparently some rogue shrapnel pierced their windshield. Her mother got her to the hospital, but—but it was already over."

Emma sat up now, unable to keep passively listening. "Oh, my…_stars_, Killian," she gasped, not really knowing what else to say to something like that. She balanced back on her heels, but he refused to meet her eyes, keeping his firmly fixed on his towel-covered lap.

"Her family blamed me for sending her back—"

"That's ludicrous!" Emma exploded. "How could you have known—"

"I couldn't've, Emma, but the point is, I did. And I was, fairly, cut of from those I thought I'd be linked to through marriage. A substitute family, I suppose, was what I thought they'd be, after losing Liam. But I got what I deserved—nothing."

"That's not fair!" Emma continued heatedly. "There was nothing fair about it! The war—I'm sure emotions were high. I can't even imagine how it was for those in the thick of it." She cupped a hand over his knee. "Of course they were devastated. But that doesn't mean they were right to take it out on you." When he still refused to meet her gaze, she leaned over and threw her leg over him to sit squarely in the middle of his lap. "_Look_ at me, Jones." He finally did, as she'd all but given him no choice. Her hands slid up his shoulders. "You're fair…and noble…and just—just plain _good_."

"How can you even say that, Swan?" His voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm a demon. I've cheated death via the ones closest to me, and now I'm just some—some bloody automaton out to bring glory and protection to the crown, without giving a toss about anything else. And that includes myself."

Emma tilted his head back, her hands absently stroking his scruffy cheeks. "Maybe—maybe I can care enough for us both. Until you realize you didn't have anything to do with those tragedies, at least."

His eyes shone bright in the dark room. "Why're you so good to me, lass? What've I done to—"

"_Because_, Killian." Emma gulped around the lump in her throat. "Because you've been the first person in a long time, maybe even my whole life, who saw all that I was and still treated me like—like a _human being_." She pressed a finger over his lips as they parted. "I'm not done. You—you may think you're some cold, unfeeling machine, but"—she pressed her hand firmly over the left side of his chest—"I've seen your heart. And I haven't found it lacking."

"Gods, Emma," Killian groaned, his good hand coming up to tangle in her hair, bringing her head down to him, while his stumped arm curved around her back. "You don't know how much I need you," he murmured, his lips closing over hers.

* * *

><p>Killian felt the heat from her hand on his chest spread outward, along his limbs and down to his groin. The Swan girl thought <em>he<em> was good? Thought _he_ didn't have a heart blackened by regret and death? His mind was too much of a whirlpool at the moment to debate the truth of it all; all that mattered was what Emma perceived. Plus, she was sitting on top of his barely-clothed self, arms around his shoulders, kissing him in such a deep, all-consuming fashion, he thought he very well may pass out.

"_Emma_," he warned, hands sliding down to grip her hips tightly. "If you continue this wanton behavior, you don't stand a snowball's chance in Hades of leaving here without me having completely _ruined_ you for that prat you're marrying."

Her lips left his neck with a wet, suctioned _pop_ that made him shudder, her red nails scratching softly along his jawline. "Did you even guess, Jones, that maybe that's what I want? That maybe I need the visual of you hovering above me, kissing everywhere you can reach? Or that I need the memory of you wrapping my legs around your waist, when I rode you until we were both too spent to move? Or sliding into—"

"Damn you, Swan," he growled, rearing up suddenly and flipping her on her back. He balanced himself unsteadily, his good hand planted next to her head, blue eyes burning into hers like dry ice. "You're a bloody torment."

Emma held onto his shoulders with trembling fingers. This was a rotten, bad idea—no matter the reason, she was binding herself to another man at the end of the week, hadn't brought her diaphragm—fuck, things had been so much easier when she thought any show of sentiment in these little tête-á-têtes was all from her side, and any show of emotion on Killian's part was only her own hopeful delusion. There'd never been a reason to think Killian would be any different— he was a man, and men always disappointed. And now, right before things were all going to hell in a handbasket, he was falling apart over _her_? Though she did feel some vindication in finally knowing that _whatever_ this was went both ways, the idiot had ragingly awful timing. Emma was beyond peeved with herself, that she couldn't resist the pull of this man, this one blasted man. She hadn't let a man get under her skin in nearly a decade, and that time she'd wound up—no, she couldn't think about it. Somehow, over the past couple months, Killian had proved himself a different sort—he looked at her now the same way he had the first time they'd met: like she was the sun, and he wasn't afraid of getting burned.

Emma slid her hands up his chest til she cupped his neck, raised her legs slowly until her feet were level with his waist, and pushed the towel down. Killian sucked in a breath harshly. "I'm not putting you on, Killian," she insisted lowly. "I mean it. And it's not just the sex. I think…I think even if we'd met under other circumstances, in another place, another time…I'd choose you."

That seemed to be all the encouragement needed to snap the last remnants of Killian's self-control; with a strangled-sounding moan, his mouth fastening onto her neck while his hand slid up her skirt. Emma let her head drop back, closing her eyes while she twisted her hand behind her back to yank on her zipper, kicking it off her legs. Within moments, between the both of them, they'd managed to half-pull, half- tear off her remaining garments and twine together again. The skin-on-skin contact felt so good, Emma felt her eyes start to well up; the touch of his hands on her, and him beneath hers, had the sweet familiarity of two people who knew each other intimately while also carrying that spark of excitement that always made her feel like her heart had skipped a few beats. It had been months—would a spark like that wear off over time? She guessed she'd probably never find out, and that thought had her pulling him forward by her hands on each side of his face, and kissing him fiercely.

"Simmer down, Swan," he chuckled, once she'd allowed him a breath. "This isn't your last meal before the guillotine."

Emma snorted in spite of herself; how the hell could he joke at a time like this?! He didn't know that…. Plus, she thought they'd had quite enough talking for the night. She ran one hand through the hair at the nape of his neck, clenching it in her fist. "Make…make love to me, Killian. Even if—listen, can we just…pretend this once? For me?"

His mouth thinned into a hard line, and without a word, he thrust forward sharply to the hilt, and Emma yelped in surprise. "You asked for it, Swan," he grumbled into her throat, as he started to move insistently, not giving her time to adjust. "I hope you can handle it."

"Maybe—_goddamn_," she gasped raggedly. "Maybe _you're_ the one who can't handle it."

"Defiant as always," he commented, voice husky. His hand splayed across her back, pushing her chest up for his mouth to pay exquisite attention to her breasts. His tongue swirled around one, teeth applying a gentle pressure on her nipple, while his hand rose up to play with the other before he switched. She did her best to give as good as she got, but she felt like a seagull being tossed around in a tempest; every time she tried to drive her hips upwards, she was met with another forceful jerk of his that had her practically seeing stars. His mouth and hand roaming over every inch of her, while being inside of her at the same time, was sensory overload. After awhile, it was all Emma could do to just hold on. This was far from their first experience, which had been a lighthearted building-up into the heat of the moment. Now, she could tell some of her misgivings were starting to wear on him by the furious desperation with which he drove into her—maybe he _was_ starting to entertain her concerns that this could be the last time in a very long while. Emma's panting grew heavier, both hands fisting in his hair. Was this what love was like? She'd never had anyone, save for an occasional john in the heat of the moment, tell her they loved her. Well, if it wasn't love, she couldn't imagine the real thing was very different.

"Lass, I'm close" Killian's tone was higher-pitched, taut. He reached down to press his thumb to her clit, making her thighs start to quake. "Emma, darling, say it. _Tell _me."

_Say what—'I love you'?_ There was no way she could bring herself to; that was what people who had never said it before said, when they were never going to see each other again, in the pictures.

"I—_I can't_," she said jerkily, it coming out in a half-sob as her orgasm started to spark along her nerves, blurring the edges of her vision. Her nails scraped his back, red lines appearing in their wake. "Please, Killian, I—"

"Bloody fucking gods, Swan!" he roared, rearing up, his arms wrapping around her waist tightly as he spilled into her.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Just think of this as prep for things to come :) Hope you enjoyed it, nevertheless.**


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